The Steed, the Stag, and the Madman
by GreyFlank
Summary: CHAPTER TEN NOW COMPLETE! When Penrod's ship comes in, he is swept up into the World of Darkness circa 1700's, as Kindred and other Supernaturals conduct shadow wars in Colonial America.
1. Arriving at Avalon

**The Steed, the Stag, and the Madman** **By Bill Kieffer with Eric Schneider**

***

_My first Claude the Malkavian story **not** based on a V:tM gaming session. I created this as a commission piece for Eric Schneider, who gets credit for the basic story premise. _

***

Full moonlight streamed into the stables from the gaps in the ceiling, cutting the shadows. The horses were uneasy for something moved in those shadows, something dark and deadly. Fear ringed their eyes with flashes of white, for the thing no longer tried to hide itself. It walked like a man, through the streamers of light, past the near panicked beasts of burdens.

But one horse did not panic. One horse had no fear of the creature. It was deadly, yes, every sense, every instinct told the stallion this was death walking up to its stall. Muscles twitched nervously, expectantly, and its huge head angled out of its stall, over the steel gate, laying its throat bare for death to take it.

Yet, the creature did not fall upon its throat, biting and feasting upon the volumes and volumes of blood it proffered. 

The threat passed, silently, uncaring for the offer.

Disappointment and despair overcame that large creature and its noble black head dropped downward with a snort that sounded like a sigh.

The thing stopped and looked back. With no thought to caution or guile, the creature turned back and stepped into the sliver of light closest to the black stallion's stall. "Well, hello there," the creature said, curious and gentle.

The stallion looked up and saw a pale man in black, whose goatee of glistening blood was smeared over black streamers of clotted blood. The horse held its ground, not afraid for what he knew this creature to be, frightened of what the monster may not do. Fingers nearly as pale as whale bone in moonlight reached up and stroked the horse's muscular nose.

To the horse, it was if death itself was teasing it. The hand was delicate and careful, the fingers of an artist growing from the limbs of a monster. The horse whickered softly, a pleading noise, short and full of the bleakest hope it could manage.

The cold, blood soaked dead man, cocked his head slightly to the left. "My name is Claude Devereux." The creature of the night said with more than a slight French accent. "What's yours?"

The horse met his eyes as he stomped on the ground and flexed his nostrils in an angered snort.

"Oh, that's a nice name," the undead thing said. "What did you do to piss the Stag off?"

***

A man has needs. 

This can not be denied, although many a man nobler than I deny them. Alas, I am not one of those so gifted by God the Almighty. Or perhaps it is that my needs were more demanding of me than of lesser men. The curse of virility that was nearly my undoing in the London of my youth, has surely lessened just ever so slightly in years of late. I have a wife and I have sired seven strong boys by her proving the curse to be a blessing in disguise. I am a land owner in the colony of Virginia, growing tobacco to put food on our plates.

Needs be that I must travel from time to time. A gentleman farmer who relies too heavily on the success of one investment, and crops at that, is a gambler and gambling is a sin I shall have no book with. Of all my Earthly weaknesses, I can say that much at least. I have my hands in many businesses and operations. 

The last to pull me from home, was the business of a ship from France who was met with unfriendly welcome upon docking from Her Majesty's men. I left, not unhappy at the prospect of the two day journey south to Calders Bay, for my twin infant sons were in the midsts of teething and I was close to tears myself from lack of proper sleep. I rightfully reckoned I should sleep better in a moving carriage than under the roof with a screaming pair of babies. Yet, at once, I was concerned for while I was a silent, minor partner in this venture, I realized belatedly that I might have overlooked certain evidence that my partners might not be behaving fully aboveboard. 

Even with the expected corruption and bribes, one hardly ever lost a freshly birthed and unboarded ship. Of a cert, Lloyd's would demand an investigation. Should the enterprise be dissolved, I fully intended to be there to collect my due.

My driver brought me to the manse of the major partner, Merlin Herne, where I had been invited to spend the week pending a trial of either Captain Dean of The White Lady or the Calder Bay harbormaster. A sizeable sum of money was at risk depending on which way the winds of jurisprudence blew.

I introduced myself to the dark skinned servant who met me in the drive as he welcomed me to Avalon. "Mathew Penrod, here to meet with Mr. Herne."

His eyes laughed at me, although the slave rightfully did not meet my eyes. With a gesture and a snap of his fingers, black boys snapped to from out of concealment and swarmed busily around my carriage and my man. A white gloved hand motioned for my attention as I watched the silent collection of my bags. "This way, if you please, Master Penrod." 

I followed, telling myself that I was merely disagreeable from the road, for who can tell rightly what is on a darkie's mind. Assuming the proper Christian attitude, I let the incident pass. In any case, the younger slaves seemed well-behaved and the expression I saw in his face may well have been paternal pride as much as anything else.

The darkie led me up a short flight of marble steps and opened the dark stained oak doors for me. I stepped into an impressive entry hall with polished marble floors with intricate inlaid designs of interlocking black circles. Where the floors represented Herne's Irish heritage, a half-score white stone statues of ancient Roman mythological creatures, exhibiting a lavish decadence only the overly educated could give excuse for.

One large portrait of what might have been Merlin Herne himself if the clothing wasn't two centuries out of date stood watch over the whole of the room. 

Just as the servant who showed me in, took my hat and coat, an anxious man waddled briskly into view. "Ah! Mister Penrod, so glad you could make it." A hand shot out as he approahed, signalling that we were equals, at least in this man's eyes. I took the hand and gave it the confident shake of one gentleman to another. "Welcome to Avalon. I'm Jarod Herne, Merlin Herne is my uncle. My uncle is calling upon some of the widows from that rather unfortunate incident and I'm afraid you've arrived slightly earlier than he expected. I've sent one of our Negroes to fetch him, but I do not expect him back before dusk at the very least."

"We made good time," I said with what I hoped was a polite voice. With the distinct shade of red hair common to the Irish, young Jarod was the spitting image of his uncle, except that he was slight of build and his hands were slightly calloused. He was just old enough to call himself a man without being challenged, but no older. His words added a new wrinkle to what was already an unsettling event. "Forgive me, but am I to understand there were deaths resulting from... why, I'm not even sure what word best suits what happened."

"Catastrophe," Jarod provided with a sour grin. "We simply cannot turn around without some new demon making itself evident. First, there was the confrontation that led to the burning of the ship itself. Then plague, Mr. Penrod. Nasty business."

"Plague?" I was a learned man and I knew full well the horrors history ascribes to plague. One tended to think we left such things behind us in Europe, where everything was old and corrupt. Everything in the Colonies was new and fresh; raw and untamed. "In this day and age?"

"Aye," Young Jarod nodded. "My uncle knows more details than I. Until his return, let me show you to your room where you might wash the road dust from your person. Perhaps, I can have someone bring up a bite to eat while you bathe. You must be starved from your journey."

With the image of food and a warm bath before me, I agreed readily with the young master's assessments and followed him past all the creatures of myth and up a flight of marble stairs. Never so willing before did a fly enter a spider's parlor.

***

To be continued


	2. Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

I had put up a token protest as my host's nephew left me in the charge of well-endowed and quite fetching Negress named Naomi, but in truth, I must admit to being quite pleased with the situation, although my shock at the suggestion was genuine and sincere. I had not had a woman bathe me since I was but a lad or six or seven.

A claw-foot steel tub had been set aside in a room all its own. The servants had already drawn up enough hot water to cover my legs and Naomi had added a concoction of herbs and oils. The homeopathic exhalations of bay, lavender, and other medicinal ingredients set about soothing my anxiety almost immediately upon entering the well-lit room.

As Naomi helped me into the luxurious cauldron, I marveled at the casual wealth my senior partner possessed and displayed. The round room where I took my bath, for example, was constructed of rough hewn cedar with ornate hooks for clothing and shelves for towels. Most impressive were the many windows that provided a panorama of the fields of Avalon and the rolling hills beyond that. There were windows set in the ceiling rafters, also, letting in daylight.

One could, conceivably, easily become lost watching the clouds stroll by as the warmth of the water loosened and soothed tense muscles. 

In my case, however, my eyes were drawn ever back to the Negress who attended me. Her gentle hands had never seen hard work or lye soap; her fingernails filed to perfection. She hummed as she scrubbed my back with a soft brush. I grew aroused under her administrations, but I did not hide myself, for she was just a slave and not a few of the statuary of Mr. Herne's collection were tastelessly vulgar. I doubted very much I could truly offend her.

"May I rinse the dust from your hair, Mr. Penrod?" She said politely and with a musical lilt to her voice. Her voice was cultured and as nearly intoxicating as well-aged sherry. I nodded and warm water suddenly cascaded gently down upon my head. 

I prepared myself, instinctively, for the fine tooth comb my mother would have used on me at that point, but instead, Naomi's fine fingers began to massage my scalp. I gasped, slightly, for the touch was far more intimate than I truly expected. Yet, the part of a man that is a beast had expected and wished for contact much more intimate and intense.

"T-t-that," I sputtered, trying to sound casual and succeeding only in part, I suspect, "That feels... very nice."

"Thank you." The enchanting creature said as she began to work a lotion into my hair. "Mr. Herne likes to have his guests treated to as many Earthly delights as he has discovered from his travels across Europe and Asia."

A small dark boy brought in another bucket of water and removed two of the empty buckets. I could hear him tramp down the back stairway with them as they scraped occasionally against the narrow walls. "I wonder why Mr. Herne did not build this room on the ground floor?" That was a question for Mr. Herne, of course, but I found myself needing to hear the girl's voice again.

"My master likes the view," she said with a purr in her voice. I glanced at her, letting my eyes slide down the gentle slope of her neck to the dark and tempting cleavage exposed by her loose blouse as she bent over to wipe some lather from my forehead.

"Indeed," I said and looked away as she smiled with a rueful look in her eyes and a glance to my own engorged member.

I was flattered and a man did, indeed, have needs, but I was a guest in Avalon and I had never bedded a black woman. I did not desire to reduce myself to the role of a randy buck, yet, there was always a part of even the most Christian of men that is still just a beast.

"If you would but lean back, sir," my dark temptress purred as she allowed her sponge to soak up more of my still warm bathwater. I complied and watched nervously as she reached between my legs. With a squeeze of the sponge, warm liquid fell upon my cod. My manhood twitched with anticipation and my hands slapped tightly on the edges of the tub.

The sponge went into the water and the gentle wake of its submersion rippled against loosened sack of flesh nestled beneath my stiffened, sinful member. I forced myself to close my eyes because I could not bring myself to ask her to stop. I was conflicted, for I loved my wife and I would not give in to sin so easily, but my wife was far away and moments with her like this seemed so very long ago.

Then the warm moist sponge was climbing my phallus with strokes to alternated upwards and downwards. Under her gentle ministrations, my ball sack tightened slowly. I took measured breathes and she seemed to forget I was still in the room with her and my betraying member. Naomi began to hum again even as I struggled with myself. Like manna from heaven, I was unwilling to question the will of God, which had brought me to this pass.

God would forgive, I knew.

She stopped for a moment and my heart thudded with disappointment, but my mind gracefully accepted the relief. She was just a slave after all, I told myself. A white man's penis could have no more attraction for her than white woman would have for a Negro's. 

Yet. When I opened my eyes ever so slightly, it was to see her pour a measure of oil into my bathwater, onto her left hand, and then upon my well-cleaned rod.

She massaged the flesh between my legs gently for several minutes as I sat there, still and uncomplaining. It was all I could do not to beg for more. It was all I could do not to command her to stop. She pulled down my foreskin with a sure grip despite the oil present and stroked away nearly invisible semgma with a small hand clothe from beneath the crown of flesh that stood suddenly exposed.

The desire to kiss her now was strong. I longed to take her into my arms and throw all that I had worked for away. And to sin, yes. I could think of little but sin under her expert care.

It was at that moment Jared returned to us, tapping on the door stepping inside with hardly a pause. Discretion is not often a virtue of youth, however Naomi slipped gears easily enough. She urged me forward, head down, and I eagerly complied. A bucket of cool water rained down on my head slowly, rinsing both the lotions from my hair and the urgency of my loins. 


	3. The Drawing Room

The esteemed Merlin Herne returned to his home shortly after dusk. I was seeing to the boarding of my horse and my man when one of the countless little darkies came tugging upon my pants leg to announce that his master was ready to see me in his drawing room.

I returned from Avalon's carriage house to the main house where I was met by young Jared. He apologized for not fetching me himself, but there had been some sort of incident with the kitchen staff which could only be handled by a Herne. When pressed for details, he merely replied, "It was just simply a matter of policy and domains. The house staff and the kitchen staff both think their jobs should take precedent over the others. I'm sure you know how servants can be sometimes."

I nodded, although I truth I did not. I had a dozen slaves, yes, but they were all field-hands. The closet thing I had to a house servant was Missy Sweet, who was too old and fat to work the fields any longer, but could change swaddling and feed our youngest, which was just about enough to keep my Pamela from driving herself mad.

The drawing room proved to a bit more of a library than what I had imagined. There was not a single window in the room, although there was no want of places to sit. We came upon the worthy at his writing table, reviewing a hand written document most intently. Jared cleared his throat politely and Mr. Herne became animated once more.

He nearly leapt from his chair to shake my hand and ask how my journey had gotten along.

This was but our second meeting in person and I could not help but notice how pale his skin was. Many a woman would likely sell their souls to have skin so pale and unblemished. The shocking red hair only amplified how white his face was.

He seemed... taller than I recalled. Not by much perhaps, but taller all the same. His eyes were also darker and the shape of his nostrils seemed a bit off. Perhaps it was only the candles' deceptive shadows casting his face oddly or perhaps Father Time was playing hob with my memory.

Still, a face this pale yet still so animated tended to burn an image resolutely upon one's mind. Or so I would think. Yet, there could be no denying that the man in front of me spoke exactly as the man I knew to be Merlin Herne. I pushed aside any hesitations I might have had answered him with all the warmth and sincerity I could muster, and told him the few bits of colonial rumors I had been privy to.

The most exciting aspect of my journey so far was exploring Avalon and its environs, I told him. I judiciously failed to mention the steel tub adventure Jared had unknowingly truncated. One could write that off as an exploration of sorts, I suppose. "I must thank you for your hospitality. Your home is truly like none other."

A small pleased smile appeared on his face, perhaps the first glimpse of sincerity on his face I've seen. "Thank you, Penrod. I must admit, it is a trifle more lavish - perhaps more decadent - than I had intended. Yes, I've traveled Europe and Asian looking for a place that felt like home. Once I stepped foot on the soil of the New World, I knew I had finally discovered my one true fortress against the travails the Old World had to offer." He gestured to one of the many small pagan statues set about the room. "It is ironic, that once I found my haven here, free of the confines of Old World society, I set about gathering as many small pieces of my past as I could possibly find."

I am usually one to try to get down to business quickly, but Merlin Herne seemed so forthcoming and animated in speaking about his home. It was clear to me, he had no desire to speak of business just yet, and I felt obliged to follow his unspoken wishes. I made a show of admiring the piece he had pointed out, I recognized it as either a Greek or Roman forest sprite. It was a satyr or a fawn, perhaps, half a foot tall with an engorged member that would make a stallion blush with envy. It was as highly detailed as it was explicit, a reminder that as civilized as the Ancients had been, that there were still base mortals in their heart of hearts. It was also very obviously cast from gold. 

"Exquisite," I said, quite honestly awed. Gold. I felt monetary calculations threaten briefly to overtake my mind, so I sought for an avenue of discussion that might distract me from yet another base temptation. "What can you tell me about this piece?" I heard myself ask. 

It was a common business axiom that nothing is more valuable than asking about a client or patron about himself or his hobbies to get in his good graces. The wealthy Irishman cracked open like an egg and, much to the barely suppressed amusement of Jared who had probably heard it all before, I received both a tour of the drawing room as well as a tour of Greek and Roman social mores (or, in some cases, the lack thereof).

All the talk of sexual practices did not ease the struggle within my mind. Indeed, the cooling embers of my loins were re-ignited by the actions represented by the various figures in the room. Beyond mere copulation, the decadence of the Ancients included men with men, men with animals, and even men with boys or multiple women. No orifice, it seemed, was safe back in the land of myth and monsters. 

I could not but help but think what a Herne slave might have learned during the course of her service under such a master. I could not help but to wonder what might have been. The shadow of her touch returned to me and I found myself close to embarrassing myself as Herne spoke of variants to the legend of Heracules. Surely, if any one glanced at my crotch, even the restraining walls of tan cotton could not hide the log of flesh pressing up from my groin.

Just when I thought I would have to excuse myself, a black servant announced that dinner was ready to be served.


	4. Breaking Bread with the Undead

Very early on, it became apparent that Merlin Herne had no appetite. He picked at the bread, taking a pinch here and there and bringing it to his mouth, only to have to respond with a word or phrase to the conversation that Jared almost single-handedly kept alive. I participated with as much eagerness as I could muster. After being introduced to the very idea of several diverse sexual practices and deviations, even the most dramatic accounts of running a huge plantation such as Avalon seemed pale and trivial.

Once I noticed the ever increasing pile of broken and pinched bread, I snatched at the chance to bring the elder Herne into the conversation. "Both the bread and the soup are most excellent, Mr. Herne. Won't you have any?"

Jared affected a stricken look, as if I had violated some etiquette that only he was aware of. Merlin, however, met my eyes with a wry and sly cast to his features. "I'm afraid that between visitation to the survivors and my visits to the widows of those who died in our employ, I have no stomach for food. If the worst that should happen to me is an empty stomach rousting me in the middle of the night from my warm bed, then so be it; I shan't complain."

Jared and Merlin shared a chuckle over this, and I agreed heartily. "But, what is it exactly that occurred? In the dispatch I received, there were no mention of death involved with the destruction of The White Lady. Your nephew mentioned plague, and the burning of a plague ship I could understand somewhat; sailors and roustabouts being somewhat severe in their reactions. Yet my initial impression, was of a disagreement over which man received the bribes and how much. Not to imply that there was anything in the way of contraband on the ship, but such... arrangements are not uncommon and often an honest man is forced to comply with such outrageousness in the name of efficiency."

Uncle and nephew exchanged looks before Merlin spoke, once again wryly, "You speak like a solicitor, Penrod. Very well said." 

My host paused and, with a thoughtful look, withdrew a silver flask from his jacket. He took a deep pull from the canisters before slipping it back into his jacket. With a start, he seemed to realize he'd committed some sort of social faux pox and dipped back into his jacket for the flask. Apologetically, he offered it to me but I declined graciously, indicating my still full glass of red wine.

"I'm sorry, I have never lost a ship docked in its own berth before." He held the flask in his nephew's general direction, but Jared also passed politely on the offer. "It is a decidedly odd emotion. On the one hand, never have I had the chance to so easily salvage lost cargo, and much of it is salvageable, you'll be happy to know.

"On the other hand, the more I discover about the events surrounding the wreck of The White Lady, the more I wish it had been lost, inexplicitly, at sea."

"If nothing else," the young man noted pragmatically, "Lloyd's of London would be much quicker to pay for a ship that vanished without a trace."

The elder Herne nodded knowingly. "If I were in their shoes, I would be curious about so strange a set of circumstances."

Merlin Herne, over the course of the evening, explained what he had learned over the course of the day, and went about painting the scene for us.

It was the sixth day of the month, as I had been told in the first dispatch, that the White Lady approached that dock without following the usual protocols. This was not unusual, for the Herne family fortune was largely responsible for the docks themselves and with Calders Bay in general. Regulations about such things tended to be a casual affair in this port. The harbormaster himself had no complaints.

However, by some cosmic coincidence, a British Naval frigate that had dropped anchor in the harbor one day prior for an unscheduled bit of shore leave. H.M.S. Diomead had, of course followed protocol to the letter, and for no other reason that the Hernes or I could think of, her captain got his bunghole in a uproar over what he thought of as highly suspect behavior.

With a few of his own men not enjoying the port's hospitality supplemented by the several strong-arms the Harbormaster was harried to call upon, Captain Darcy was there to meet The White Lady as it's hull bumped to a rest against the pier it called home.

All present on the dock attest to odd pall that seemed cast upon the sailors above deck. Where there should have been relief in the faces of men returned safely from sea, there were only dark looks or wild, furtive glances. No one answered their hails, despite being but a few feet away.

When the gang plank was lowered, Darcy had his men kick it away while he, himself, made a show of sighting the crew with his pistol. They ignored him even as he demanded to speak with Captain Reginald Dean, whom the harbormaster assured him was the captain of the vessel. His patience at an end, the Brittish officer fired into the air, over the head of the nearest man.

The mariner merely looked blankly at Darcy for a moment before shambling off below decks. 

A few moments later, a tall man appeared from the Captain's cabin. "I am Captain Reggie Dean," he announced from the main deck. "I understand you are asking for permission to board my ship. Let me set my gangplank that I might grant you permission to do so." 

In contrast to his men, this fellow was as neatly dressed in his dark oilskin jacket as Captain Darcy was in his Royal Naval uniform. His eyes were sharp and focused and his smile was most disarming.

However, he was not Captain Dean, and the harbormaster informed Captain Darcy of this in voice perhaps louder than prudent. By this time, the pier had become crowded with milling roustabouts ready to earn some coin, for the task of unloading ships is the bread and butter of the lower class of Calders Bay. A palpable undercurrent of tension had already been building amongst the colonists who knew they would retire hungry or sober if the ship was turned away.

Captain Darcy had no experience in dealing with Virginian Colonists who very much saw him as a meddling busybody and a foreigner at that. He had, he might not have let himself into such an untenable position. He had but a moment to reflect upon the threat before him as the pretender waved his hand in signal to his crew. Darcy raised his pistol as he heard the wild screams of madmen and aimed his pistol at false mariner.

He should have had the gun pointed behind him, as it turned out. The mob that had previously kept a respectful distance behind His Majesty's Men, suddenly swelled forward and attempted to overwhelm the Authority. Fists flew and voices were raised until a rifle rapport brought sudden silence to the peir. Shocked out of their rage, each man stepped back until the press of bodies no longer held a stunned British Captain upright. A sailor looked guiltily at his own smoking firearm while Captain Darcy completed four steps in a drunken man's jig and fell sloppily to the planking.

As one, the sailors affixed bayonets to the ends of their rifles, their eyes locked grimly on either their Captain's body or the stunned rabble before them. 

My host painted quite a poetic and dramatic picture. In my overactive imagination, I could almost hear the staccato of the knives locking into place over the fading echo of the gunshot. Another moment of silence as the lads make a mental adjustment that their captain is no longer around to give them orders and the colonist wonder just what it is that they've done. A gull screams, complaining about the sudden noise.

For a second time in as many minutes, the sailors are taken by surprise from the rear as the desperate and wild-eyed men of the White Lady leapt down upon them from the main deck and forecastle.

"At this point," my host explained, "witnessed accounts begin to vary greatly. Suffice to say, no one claims to know who began the fire, except it was not assuredly they."

"So, Captain Darcy died that very day?" 

"Actually, the good captain's wound was shallow." Jared interjected as his uncle was distracted by Naomi, who appeared to pour water into her master's cup much more slowly than needs demanded. A flicker of hunger appeared on my host's pale face as his eyes took in her ample bosom and the dark, delicate curve of her neck. Jared and I politely ignored such open lust so as not to embarrass Mr. Herne, or -- by extension -- ourselves. "Before it could even scab over, however, it became clear that a very ill fate had befallen the captain's mind."

"Whatever malady caused the crew of The White Lady to go mad, it had passed completely to the sailors and laborers by dawn the next day." The elder Herne explained now that Naomi had moved onto me. By god's grace alone did I keep my eyes focused straight ahead, nor did I allow myself to blush as I felt her leg brush up against my thigh as she refilled my cup. "By dawn's light, the surviving crew of The White Lady were poxxed dark and their bodies deformed with swelling of the joints, tongues, and throat. It is a painful and gruesome way to go."

"Indeed!" I said in complete agreement. "Are the inflicted isolated so this terrible plague does not further spread?"

"Thank the Good Lord, yes. I should not like to be known as the man who imported death to the New World." Merlin Herne stopped to admire the Cornish game hen placed before him. "I've made Calders Bay my home, Penrod. I know every man, woman, and child in this fine village. I can't tell you how many sleepless nights I've spent worrying that they might blame me somehow for this disaster."

A small roasted hen was placed before me and my wine glass refilled for the third or forth time. I watched Naomi refill Jared's water and I found myself drooling at the thought that she might be willing to finish what was started but a few short hours ago. I could only have the complete discretion I required if my dark Venus was willing. 

I caught a look of amusement in the eyes of Jared Herne and I quickly turned my attention to my food. Perhaps my desires were not as evident, for the amusement seemed directed towards something his uncle had said. Or perhaps not. After all, out of the simple courtesy of gentleman, Jared and I had done I best to casual look to other way when our mutual benefactor turned a licentious eye towards Naomi but a few moments earlier.

I attended to the meal before me, blocking such base thoughts for my mind with a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the Lord for the bounty before me. Neither Jared nor Merlin Herne had offered to say a prayer before dinner and, pragmatic that I am, I failed to make an issue of it.

I had just begun to savor a bit of breast meat when the sound of running feet caused we three men to look towards the double doors directly behind Jared. A young tow-headed boy, wide-eyed and smeared with dirt, burst into the room, followed belatedly by the Negro who apparently attended to proceed the lad, but had failed to keep up.

The lad, no older than twelve perhaps, took a deep breath and forced himself to swallow it so that he might get the words out quickly. 

"Mister Herne! You better come quick!" The boy hollered and reached out to grab the arm of a startled Merlin Herne. "They found bones! Bones in your ship!" 


	5. The Mysterious Remains

Merlin Herne immediately ordered his carriage brought around, this meant a delay that did not sit well with me in the least. "We can saddle our horses quicker and push each steed to hurry more safely than a set of teamsters!" Herne ignored my request, trying to get more details form the messenger lad.

"My uncle does not ride, especially at night," Jarod said diplomatically off to the side, "His distance vision is not what it used to be."

I nodded, realizing that to push the issue would be to call for my host to reveal a weakness he was not prepared to or perhaps, force himself to ignore his limitations and gamble that his horse would keep him safe.

It seemed, too, that my impatience was for nothing for almost instantly a two horse carriage pulled to the main entrance. When one is wealthy enough, one can afford to have a team of horses ready at one's whim all hours of the night apparently. 

They were fine steeds with sculpted muscles and sleek dark coats, from what I could see in the moonlight. They protested suddenly when they heard their master's voice call back to house staff to keep the porch light lit until he returned home. The footman calmed them with a few words and then we climbed into a very modern, black-lacquered coach, tossing the boy up to the coachman where the land would be out of the way. His horse would be returned the next day but it was too hot and bothered to force it back to lad's home that night. In the meantime, Herne promised the lad that his horse would be as well treated and rewarded in the meantime, just as the lad, in appreciation of the fleet service he had done them. With that, he pressed a full pound note into the boy's pocket, promising another if his report proved accurate.

We speculated uselessly on what these so called bones might be as the carriage drove on. Quite near to an hour later, we entered the empty village square. At two hours past sunset, there was not a single soul about save us. This struck me as only passing odd; most villages kept the same hours but I was under the impression a seaport, even a minor one such as Calders Bay had a more active nocturnal element.

"Indeed," my host informed me, "but the fear of the mysterious flux is likely keeping them shuttered and sheltered safely within their homes for a change."

"Flux?" I had never heard that word used that way before.

"Any unnamed illness," Jared translated for me. "Uncle Merle spends so much time with his dusty tomes he sometimes slips into archaic phrases."

His uncle harrumphed. "It is not so archaic, Nephew, the word is used quite often in my collection of log books and rutters."

"Uncle, sir... those logs are almost two hundred years old," Jared said, reasonably. "From a day when mortal fraility was less well understood."

The senior Herne glanced at me as if searching for a bit of aid. While word games were a popular parlour game, I, myself, had never been very good at them. Then he smiled with wicked delight and said, "Point taken, but I would forward that mortal frailty was much better understood two hundred years ago."

Jared gracefully conceded that his uncle might be correct, at that, just as the carriage came to a stop at the dockyards and we climbed out of the carriage to meet Gherbod Fleming, a Hun whose boots ended just inches from his crotch. "I've not seen a thing like it before Herr Herne," he said, by way of greeting, and waved us all to follow him.

I saw then, for the first time, the remains of The White Lady in moonlight. Both the main mast and the fore mast still stood tall, although each were canted slighted at different angles. Topsails and jibs were tattered, defeated things that hung lifelessly like the leaves of a weeping willow tree. I assumed, correctly, that the main and fore sails had burned away completely. The quarter deck was missing completely, as if the fire had started in the Captain's cabin.

To my surprise, there were a number of men with lanterns crawling on her corpse. Once again, Jared stepped in to answer my unvoiced questions. "At low tide, the water's a mere ten feet deep. My uncle's not one to waste time, not when the moon is full."

Fleming took us to a warehouse where there were three skeletons laid out neatly. Proudly, the huge foreman showed us one of the skulls in his giant paw. "Das devil," Fleming spat out.

There was certainly no mistaking the fangs growing out of the skull's upper row of teeth. Merlin Herne brought a white handkerchief up to his mouth as he studied the gruesome thing. Neither Jared nor Merlin seemed inclined to take a closer look, so I accepted the skull as it seemed someone with half a brain ought.

"This skull is much too old to be the missing Captain, or any of the crew, in fact. Certainly, something so macabre could not have been part of our cargo. I would think several skeletons would have stood out on a cargo of sundry merchant items and tea."

I tried to pass the skull back to the overseer of the salvage project, but he refused it. "I want rid of this, Herr Herne. These demonic remains are cursed and no doubt the source of your plague ship. I've called Father Adams to come exorcise these... abominations!"

Both Hernes did not like that wrinkle at all. In fact, Merlin was angry enough to put some color back in his cheeks. "Father Adams is quite busy enough administering to the dying crewmen." He growled, seeming to swell in size as he did so. "Isn't it obvious that this is nothing more than an artifact created by some witty taxidermist? No doubt Captain Dean came across these oddities and recalled my interest in legends, myths, and hoaxes, Fleming."

The Kraut's eyes nearly bugged completely out of his own skull. "Obvious? Nien! 

"Seems rather redundant, doesn't it?" Jared spoke thoughtfully, as if unaware of their man's agitation. "Cursing demonic remains, I mean."

The German sputtered incoherently, his own words strangled in his throat in their rush to be spoken all at once. I, also was taken aback by these words, if not so extremely. It was one thing to dabble in the myths of legend, but it was quite another to be connected in any way to pagan atrocities. In cities, such as London or Philadelphia, such accusations could be laughed off. Elsewhere, hobgoblins are taken much more seriously.

"Nephew," the elder Herne growled, warningly, and Jared seemed instantly contrite, the smile gone from his face as if it never existed. The merchant turned his attention fully on the salvage overseer then. "Who knows about it, besides you and the boy?"

Fleming's face relaxed, as if relieved that his concern was finally being addressed. "All the workers, milord."

Herne cursed softly in a language we did not share. Then he straightened up, standing even taller than before, if that was possible. "Then fetch me all the workers, I would have words with them."

The huge man grunted and left the warehouse. 

"Jared, if you would take stock of what was salvaged against The White Lady's manifest, I would appreciate it greatly."

The nephew nodded and stalked off, an expression of dark seriousness on his face. Still holding the unwholesome skull, I met my partner's eyes.

"What does this all mean?" I asked.

"That is what I am trying to determine, Penrod." His eyes glared angrily at the skull in my hands. "I must admit I find this turn of events distressing. Very distressing. If I may, I should like to impose you to return to my home with these... things. This is apt to take us all night to straighten out and one of us should be fresh in the morning to make our case before our guarantor's agent."

His eyes were kind and gentle, to the point where I could not help but trust the man. I agreed, because it just made so much sense to do as he asked. Indeed, it seemed like the only sensible thing to do.

***


	6. Naomi by Moonlight

I awoke some hours later, anxious from the nightmares which had tormented me mercilessly. I was too anxious to fall back asleep easily, so I climbed out of bed and went to the window that I might watch the stars in the sky.

Death, I told myself, was not stalking me. Certainly not in the form of a trio of skeletal demons.

They had wrapped each set of horrific remains in bundles of oiled canvas. The footman and the driver hardly batted an eye at the morbid collection, as if resigned to handle unexpected and unwholesome oddities during the course of their employment with Merlin Herne. 

I was a bit put off myself to have shared a carriage with such ghoulish company, but the time to have protested had passed the moment I agreed to Hern's request. 

And it was not as if the bones, disturbing as they were, kept me from my thoughts.

Pirates did not waylay a ship only to bring it into its home port on time. Mutineers, then; hardly an unheard of action and no doubt precipitated by the onset of the madness that inflicted The White Lady.

But then why pretend to be Capt. Dean? Better to lie and say the poor man fell overboard and who but the mutinous crew could gainsay you? Admission would mean indictment and maritime law held no mercy for rebels. 

Surely, even a madman could understand that.

My arrival back at Avalon did not clear my head fully, but my spirit was much restored with relief and gratitude at the thought of climbing into a warm and soft bed such as my host had provided. With fresh coal on the fire and a bed panned warmed mattress, a man could shut away the world and sleep forever.

But a man who had handled the bones of demons can know no such rest. I felt as a man who belatedly realized he had stood in the path of a runaway horse and felt fear only later, when he was safe.

Had this occurred in my home, this nocturnal disquietude, Pamela would have awakened and laid her hands upon and whispered comfort in my ears. Then I would have been drawn to her as any mad would be, but I was not just any man. I was her husband and for me alone did she open the gates of heaven.

Nestled in the bosom of heaven, I would then sleep.

But my wife was not here, so I stood as sentinel to the moonlit landscape. I watched against demons my mind told me could not exist while a chill grew in my stomach. Eventually, sleep would overtake me, for I still needed to rest. It would not do to yawn during the meeting with the man from Lloyd's of London. I must sleep, but these things can not be forced.

Then a movement in the dark caught my eye...

Naomi's tempting body strolled from the house to the barn with her head held as high as any free woman ever did, and higher than most, at that. She was a black jungle cat, more shadow than flesh. Her muscles were liquid waves, rippling up and down her length with every step. 

With a start I realized, I realized that moonlight was all she wore.

Then she stepped in the shadow of the barn, disappearing from sight. Now she was dressed in nothing but darkness, my mind told me with evil intent, and I felt, again, her hands on my manhood with her oils and deft touch.

I hastily put on my knickerbockers back into place and snuck quietly from my room, buttoning my blouse as I snuck about the house.

"Mr. Herne likes to have his guests treated to as many Earthly delights," Naomi had told me in a husky whisper, "as he has discovered from his travels across Europe and Asia." Yet I still felt the need to sneak about. Generosity such as this was best not questioned. 

*** 

By moonlight did I traverse the yard betwixt darkened Avalon and the barn I had seen from my sill. With each step, did my stride become heavier and less certain. Despite the full moon, I was entering a realm of darkness, an area of sin, and I knew not where my lustful course would lead me; never had I been so willfully blind. 

A lantern was lit within the barn, which seemed to serve as stabling for some of Herne's horses. I stepped inside, my bare feet touching the cool, hard packed earth quietly, and walked slowly to the lit lantern Naomi had hung from a nail on a post.

As I approached, I began to make out an ethereal song. The words were too soft to make out, but the song itself was as comforting as a lullaby and as inviting as the call of a Siren.

I recognized it as the melody Naomi had been humming while running the scrub brush up and down my backside. My mouth went dry even as my most singular organ became thicker and firmer within the confines of my pants. 

I heard the plunge of something into water and then a slight splash as that something was drawn up. I tensed for an instant, hoping that I hadn't come across Naomi bathing another member of the household as she had bathed me earlier. 

Jared, perhaps, but I rather doubted he was interested in anything Naomi might have to offer. Unless he had been displaying remarkable acting skills during dinner, and I was not quite willing to give the young Herne that much credit. He seemed too willing to ignore his uncle's lust for the slave so publicly, in front of a guest, that it smacked of sexual innocence.

Of course, if she was bathing anyone out here in the barn, it was likely to be another Negro. If that was the case, I could use that to my advantage, perhaps. She certainly wasn't going to bathe her master out in a barn, not when Herne had a special room set aside for such things. 

I was loath to admit it to myself, but my trepidation and my hesitation added to my animal excitement. The halls of Avalon were decked with nymphs and satyrs, imparting needful sexual demands upon me. One could not stroll the halls without seeing a set of breasts like ripe melons jutting from the feathered chest of an ebony carved harpy or a monstrous rod of bronze brazenly protruding from between the metallic goat legs of a satyr.

I was only mildly surprised to discover that she was delivering a sponge bath to a colt. The colt's dam was nowhere to be seen, which I thought was odd, but surely no odder than the sight of the undraped African goddess kneeling on the straw floor baptizing the small brown horse. 

"Naomi?" I spoke softly, knowing it would startle her and it did, for her eyes met mine quickly and, with a sharp intake of breath, brought her song to a halt. Other than that, however, she reacted as calmly as if I had walked into to the kitchen to discover her popping peas. 

Her right hand patted the colt reassuringly even as she stood to reveal her nakedness as brazenly as the godless statues within Avalon. "Master Penrod," she said huskily, with hardly a question in her voice. "Have you trouble sleeping?"

Never had such an unwholesome image seemed so healthy and natural. I needed a moment to find my voice and I felt as a teenaged boy before her. "I saw you..." I stammered and then I tried another tact. "I wanted to make sure you were all right." 

She raised an eyebrow in the flickering lamplight and I realized I had not answered her question. Like a schoolboy caught in a lie by his teacher, I cast my eyes to the ground and mumbled the truth to her. "I could not sleep, no. My mind was overcome with images of death and mad destruction. Then I saw you from my window, dressed only in moonlight and shadows..." I looked up at her eyes as bravely as I could. "Like a moth I found myself drawn to your flame. I..." Then words failed me and I looked down upon the colt at her legs.

There was something wrong with it. What, I could not tell, but it shook as if afflicted from some palsy. Its eyes were grey, filmy orbs that only hinted at sight. Blind and lame, the beast was, no doubt, meant for naught but the butcher. I assumed only Naomi's mercy had spared it thus far and I found myself both jealous and hopeful. 

Could not Naomi find such mercy and kindness for me? I could scarcely bring myself to order her to bed me, despite my belief she wanted me, that she had somehow commanded me here with the black magic of her jungle home?

"Master Penrod, my nights are not my own," she said softly, huskily, and with great understatement. As a slave, not even her life was truly her own. Her master could whip her to death in the public square of Calders Bay and none could call him criminal.

I stepped forward as awkward as the twitching creature aside her. My heart beat as wildly as the African war drums I had heard tales of. As bad as I was at word games, I was much worse at expressing my own feelings. As I was in such an odd humor, my voice stumbled in my throat. I was frightened, excited, hopeful, despairing, and amazed at the situation unfolding. I had but tasted her dark honey mere hours ago and I could think of naught else but her sweet lips upon my person again. 

"The sin has already been committed in my heart," I said surprised at my own words. What witchcraft was this to pull such poetic utterances from my mouth to be laid upon the ears of a large breasted slave woman, I knew not. I lacked the will to fight it. "Shouldn't we at least consummate the crime for which our souls shall burn eternally for?"

Her eyes were large and hungry. She, too, stepped forward, causing the blind colt nearly to fall over. "Our dalliance was interrupted, true. And Master Herne does not like things left unfinished."

"I am sure, he does not." I said, swallowing a lump I hadn't realized had been blocking my throat. "Surely this late at night there are no pressing needs upon you. There are none about Avalon to make demands of you."

Naomi stepped forward again and slipped her dark hands under my blouse. "You do not know Avalon very well, Master Penrod," she said, her eyes close to mine, burning with wanton desires that I had thought only men possessed. I knew I was about to get a lesson in feminine appetites that I would never forget. "But your flesh is warm, hot with life and passion. He is good and kind, but his flesh is as cold as an empty grave. Press your flesh to mine and speak no more. And if I should call out his name, please be so kind as not to correct me."

I nodded, not needing to be told who HE was. I also wanted to say as much, for I feared my wife's name would cross my lips in a mad moment of impassioned fulfillment, but then Naomi's lips and breasts were upon me. My arms grasped her as I put the thoughts of my wife aside. 

I simply couldn't remember her name, in any case.

* * *

Next Chapter coming soon!


	7. D'INTERDICTION INVERSEURS DE POUSSEE

**This section contains some explicit sex and implicit acts; censor yourself accordingly.**

In the course of my torment and my degradation, it all came back to me in bits and pieces. The images and sensations were, at first, unfocused and disjointed. There was naught to do, however, but turn inward and pick at the fractured shards of memory upon the floor, lest I dwell upon the impossible burdens thrust upon me.

My own body made a stranger to me, I was enslaved and hobbled. I was forced to suffer as I never knew a man to suffer. Had I been branded and forced to work the fields of Avalon, at least this I might have conceived. It would have been an irony of biblical proportions. A slave owner made slave; my shame might have been well equal to the crime then.

But, I shall not dwell. I shall not dwell upon my fate.

Instead, I turn my eyes in silent prayer, through the slatted timbers and send a prayer to a distant god for my Pamela and our newborn child. I pray that they should never know my fate, nor hate me for abandoning them, nor realize the secret shades that move amongst we mere mortals.

But night falls and eventually prayers come to an end. I stand lonesome in the dark, abandoned by all but my tormentors. I have no hope, for my punishment shall be eternal. I have no voice to give confession or to recant my sins; should I die here as I am I will surely burn in Hell.

My fate, then, is to ever dwell in Hell, on this Earthly plane or another. I am both a plaything of the Devil now, and it should not matter if his hands are as hot as coals or cold as an empty grave.

It should not matter, but it did to Naomi.

And even a woman enslaved in a Hell of her own choosing has needs.

***

We stumbled from the stall with the colt to its neighbor and immediately fell upon the wooden floor. Our hands slid upon each other; hers under my garments with wild abandon and mine across her silky ebony skin. 

Her breath was hot and moist, sour with the taste of fish. Her probing tongue painted my teeth with her taste even as her nails raked my back. Her aggression caught me off guard and I found myself quite pleased with the situation. She led and I could do nothing but follow. 

She took me between her fingers again. There were no oils here to lubricate the flesh, but the gentleness was gone also. With several viciously rapid squeezes, she mashed my testicles together as I gasped for air. There was no pain, but the shock and the expectation threw me from myself for but a moment. 

Nimble fingers kneaded tender flesh in the darkness and I found myself growing more and more still, just as I had in the bath. My movements were too clumsy and with my limbs out of the way, my dark conqueror began her attack in earnest.

I was mounted and pulled with a manic zeal. Then my fleshy sword was sheathed in her hot, silken flesh, and I surrendered myself to her. Her hands upon my mysteriously naked chest held me down as she fell upon me like the breaking tide; a steady rhythm of rising and falling as undeniable as the sea itself. My lungs were forced to match the crests of each wave of pleasure, until finally I felt my hips buck, begging for release.

Pleasure and pain mixed as never before as Naomi reached beneath her and put an end to my body's foolish greed. I saw stars in the darkness and my nails planed curls of shavings from the floor, but I was frozen on the cusp of release. I was ready to scream. I was ready to cry. I was ready to do whatever she wanted of me, for I could not stay limbo such as this no matter how delicious. 

I do not recall the words I used to beg for a word from her, for some hint of what I might do to please her. It might just be that she understood my strangled cry for what it was. Yet, it might also be that she did not care for what I had to say. For all I know, I was but an unwitting actor in some theatre of sin within her mind with scripted lines and choreographed movements.

Before I knew what I was doing, my head was between her legs and my tongue tasting of fish once more. Black fingers gripped tightly my head by my hairs and guided me firmly where I needed to go. My hands gripped her knees as my nose raked her bristle patch at her urging.

She spoke words then, her native tongue no doubt for I could make no sense of them. I caught the words, "hot" and "warm," but not much else, until she began to chant yes, yes, yes. I was bewildered to be capable of bringing her such please, although I know I was but a tool.

And, to think, it was I who thought to use her.

Her hips shot up suddenly, nearly causing me to bite my tongue in twain. The taste of blood was on my lips but a second before she pressed her face once more into mine. 

She appeared sated but for a moment. The blood seemed to have reawakened her hunger once more and she pulled me beneath her like the relentless sea.

My body was but a vessel upon the great sea of her desire. Her swells and squalls would have swamped any ship. Finally, with the roar of the ocean, my hull burst open and my cargo spilled out from within.

I fell to the ground, stupefied that I had been standing at all. To this day, I cannot recall when I had gotten off my backside or when Naomi had wandered away. She was gone and I felt incomplete with her.

I simply lay there for awhile as I pondered the simplest truth of them all:

I could buy her.

***

With these mad plans of somehow buying Naomi from Herne bouncing about my head, I made my way back to the main house. My knees were weak and my back burned from Naomi's spirited scratches, but I was now sure I could sleep without nightmare.

My only fear now was that I should not awaken at all. Should I be forced to meet St. Peter at the Gate, I would not be able to look him in the eye and repent. Regret would come in its own due time, I was sure of it.

I just did not know how right I was nor how that regret should manifest itself.

The carriage had not yet returned with the Hernes and it seemed in this wing, at least, there were no others in the manse. Secured against awkward questions, I was able to climb the steps to the wash room and let myself at cleaning myself of straw and dust. As tired as I was, I did not wish to sleep with the smells of that stall clinging to me.

I stared at the moonlit landscape about as I sprinkled rose water into my skin. To the east, one could see easily the ocean and the road to town. To the north and the west, one could acres of plowed land, waiting for seed to take root. Beyond that mountains. 

To the south was Avalon, my host's home; quite nearly a palace. Though unused to such wealth, I can honestly say I had not coveted the holdings of Merlin Herne. Yet, having partaken what Naomi had to offer and standing at his giant baptismal beneath an unbelievable wealth of glass, I felt the stirrings of a great jealousy burning beneath my skin.

Sleep beckoned me like the sirens of myth and, having replaced my soiled clothes with my nightshirt once more, I could see no reason to resist further. There would be time enough in the morning to figure out how I might buy my dark temptress as if she were but a horse. Time enough in the morning to face facts, but I refused to think on that.

Yet, as I lumbered off to bed, I heard a crash and muffled angry words from the flight below. Had either of the Hernes returned since I entered the house, I should have seen their carriage riding up the moonlit road. I quickly glimpsed out my own bedroom window, which had an excellent view of the sideyard. Neither stable nor carriage house showed signs of having been stirred. Certainly, Mr. Herne's horsemen would not put his teamsters away hot and bothered.

Bandits, then.

I toss my rags away and arm myself with my wheelock horse pistol. I hesitate for a moment, considering arming myself with a sword instead. From the voices I had heard, there were more than one and should I be fortunate enough to take out one, the second is like as not to turn the tables upon me before I can reload. 

Lord forbid that there should be a third.

But, I realized if I thought so cravenly I ought to simply lock myself in my room into the danger has passed, for I have no sword upon me. More to the point, I have already given into lust tonight, I shan't give into fear. Only one character flaw a day was I willing to accept.

I steeled myself and set about a stealthy descent. My German pistol was quite nearly a cubit in length. If needed, I could easily find use for it as a bludgeon. While I was not the muscled young man Herne's nephew was, I would give a good accounting of myself.

The stairs creaked once or twice, but the voices hardly seemed to take note. As I grew closer to the bottom landing the voices seemed to shift and soften slowly from argumentative to the stout, diplomatic bargaining of gentlemen who felt grossly put upon. 

The voices seemed to be coming from Herne's drawing room, and, indeed, flickering lights suggested the informal office was brightly lit. The boldest bandits might light a candle or lantern, but a fire and several lit lamps of perfumed whale oil? That seemed unlikely.

Yes, I thought, very unlikely. I crept closer and I made out the voice of Merlin Herne. Ah, the master of the house has returned, although I could not understand at the time how he might have done so. I was sure I would have seen or heard him, but apparently not.

I was ready to relax, for surely the other voice was that of his nephew. At this late hour, their family bickering was not my concern nor of great import... unless, of course, something of a sinister and mysterious revelation had been dredged up from the broken body of the White Lady.

I eased closer to the door of the drawing room and came upon a neighboring door that was slightly ajar. Thoughts flittered through my head, not the least of which was the cover the door might provide to me should either of the Hernes step out into the hall.

It wasn't that I didn't trust them. Indeed, Merlin Herne's reputation was impeccable. But, those odd bones had left me unsettled on the truth of the matter and I could no longer accept the integrity of the whole enterprise on merely his say so. Contraband and tax evasion were serious enough crimes against the crown, but I suspect something more complex at play.

Of course, I had to admit to myself, as I slipped into the closet, I rather hoped that there was indeed something I could unearth and hold over Merlin Herne's head. 

Blackmail might succeed in liberating the Negress from Herne's cold hands where my limited supply of gold and silver could not. I couldn't but help recall the look in Herne's eyes as Naomi poured his water ever so slowly. It would have to be a startling and disturbing bit of information to loosen his hold, I should think. And as a business partner, no matter how junior, I had a right to discover if there is anything unsavory about my partner's character.

Of course, Herne might never have bedded the chesty temptress and that is what Naomi meant by his cold hands.

I strained to listen to the voices and after several seconds of my spying thusly I began to hear the voices quite clearly. It was indeed Merlin Herne in there, but the second voice was not Jared.

"I tell you, Stag," the smooth strange voice said, "You cannot stand neutral forever. If this new sect gets a beachhead in the Americas..."

"The Sabbath is of no threat to the Inconnu, and that is where my concerns begin and end." Herne replied cryptically. "In this New World with its black race of slaves and red-skinned savages, there should be room for the children of both the major sects... a cattle breed of human living along side a nurtured bred of humans who live free to strive and create to their heart's content."

"The Camarilla is NOT a mere sect, Stag, just as you are not the Elder you claim to be. There are those who say you are nothing but an Autarkis and that your tales of the New World Inconnu a fiction to cover your cowardice."

"Cowardice, Wendell? By the traditions of the Camarilla itself, I could call myself Prince of Virginia. I have proven myself to both Prince Arnold and your sire." Herne said, so quietly that I could almost not hear him at all with my ear pressed against the wall as it was. Still, there was something about the timbre of his voice that frightened me greatly. "Are you so willing to test me, childe, when your sire would not?"

There was a moment of silence, and then, "You are correct, my Lord Stag, I do not want to test you. Nor did I willing mean to test the limits of your graciousness and hospitality. You must understand, I have only the highest admiration for a--"

"Please, now you are beginning to sound like an annoying Ravenos." Herne grumbled. "I beg you, again, to speak plainly. Just speak respectfully as well."

I knew nothing of what Herne spoke of. In all the civilized world, there was no Prince Arnold, unless it was in Denmark. My education is lacking on events in that part of Europe. What was a sabbath or a autarkis for that matter?

"You do not need me to tell you this is the skull of a Gangrel. Notice how the ear holes are shifted upwards, almost two inches higher than they should be."

"Do not forget," Herne chided him softly for reasons I didn't quite understand, but I was growing used to that. "The power of Vicissitude the betrayers of my clan possess may render flesh like clay... ah, but you know that... This is but the opening move in your bargaining gambit, is it not?"

"You have already negotiated with my sire, my Lord Stag, have you not?"

I think I heard Herne sigh, or perhaps it was just the sound of a man's weight resting upon a chair. It would have been a loud sigh for me to hear it. "Speak plainly, Wendell, for the night grows short and the Wild Things of Avalon will only tolerate visiting Kindred for a short time."

"Very well, then. I am sworn to provide the service my sire promised, of course, but for a small boon from you in the near future, I would offer you a more detailed 'reading' than my sire should like."

"How very enterprising of you, Wendell. Did your sire suggest that I might be more trusting of you if you were to casually suggest that you had every expectation that I shall be around in the future should you decide to request your favour returned?"

"My Lord, I--"

"Never mind, Wendell, I have spent the better part of the night playing word games with a pooka and I am mind weary. What is the favor you want from me?"

"Lord Stag... a pooka?"

"A figure of speech, Wendell," Herne said and I could almost hear the sparkle that I knew would be in his eyes. "It was hardly the better part. Simply the longest part."

Then suddenly, a voice behind me. "I heard that." I spun about, but suddenly, hairy arms were twined about me and my mouth was covered with a huge dirty paw like hand. I froze as the large brute hushed in my ears. "You wanted to listen, Penrod? Don't try to speak, just nod."

I nodded, of course. The voice belonged to Jared, but this hulking mass could not be the slightly smaller version of the man in the next room. Then, before I could realize my mistake, my head was pushed roughly against the wall, ear first. Then the man's ogre head, pressed against mine as if absurdly expecting to hear what I heard. 

In these tight quarters, my wheelock would serve me not. If only I had thought to bring a knife. I had come hoping to find something to hold over Herne and now I find myself at the mercy of some brute who could hold my eavesdropping over my head at best.

I despise irony.

Once the shock of this odd turn of events began to pass and I realized I was in no immediate physical danger, it occurred to me that this man might be in the employ of Herne's late night visitor. If that were the case, I might be able to play along and somehow stay in Merlin Herne's good graces. It is possible, that in the darkness, the man may have mistaken me for a Negro. If only he hadn't called me Penrod... but perhaps I imagined that?

The smell of some dreadful musk filled the closet, making my eyes water slightly. The cool trail of a single tear down my face in the darkness induced a sudden feeling of panic within me. I bucked, but my captor's grip was like a vise. 

My single tear, from the stench of the man more than from my own fear, fell upon one of his thick fingers covering my mouth. I could feel the tear run along the crevice between my cheek and his fingers. My shame burned as I felt his cheek rise up against mine and I realized the bastard was smiling.

I commanded myself to be still and silent, to give this hulking creature no more satisfaction at the situation I found myself in.

I could hear Herne speaking again and I forced myself to concentrate on his words. In the darkness, I could concentrate on listening or I could dwell on the smells and sensation of being embraced so by this beast. Since my unwelcome companion seemed more intent to listen than to abuse me, I too decided to listen in hopes of better understanding my predicament. Yet, I was all too aware that a silent dagger in the dark could bring an end to me easily.

Perhaps this is why none of the words made sense to me.

"... none of these bones belong to a Toreador?" Herne was saying as his words suddenly became understandable to me once more. "But what of the architect? Why would he associate himself with a coterie of Gangrels?"

"I know not Lord Stag, but I did get the sense your architect was several centuries old while these are but the remains of a few neonate. It might be that between the fire and the sunlight that reached the bottom of the bay, there is simply nothing left to find."

"This is a great pity, Wendell. Monsieur Devereux was a visionary. His preliminary sketches for New Arcadia were inspired... something no mortal man could expect to achieve in his lifetime..." I heard a thud of flesh on wood. His roll top desk perhaps. "Proof that Kindred have more to offer the world than just nightmares and selective culling... lost." 

"Perhaps... not, Lord Stag," this Wendell said. "I do not know... I do not think...that your Devereux was aboard the ship." 

"What do you mean?" 

"To a man, each neonate was blood-bonded to a Malkavian. This is perhaps more than my sire might require me to tell you, so if we are in agreement...?" 

"Yes, yes, I shall owe you a small favour. Now, get on with it." 

"Lines of agony and madness are branded upon them... he did unnatural things to them and made them thank him for it. Indeed, it might even be that the Malkavian loved them in his own way... the four of them kept the ship under his control until halfway across the Atlantic when the Malkavian... I can see the Malkavian growing bored. I can see the gangrels growing restless as the crew was well behaved. The Malkavian's madness leapt upon the crewmen like a wolf upon unprotected lambs."

"That explains the odd behaviors of the crew the harbormaster spoke of."

"But not the physical symptoms of disease the remaining crew succumbed to."

"You may attribute their torments to me." In the silence that followed, I could only hear the breath rushes in and out my nose and the sound of the floorboard beneath our feet as the man holding me tightly shifted his weight. 

"I had thought it odd," Wendell spoke after a moment, his voice suddenly tight, "that an Old Clan Tzimisce would ask for aid from the Clan Tremere, especially in the field of thaumaturgy."

"That a Tzimisce should come to you for advice at all, should have struck you as odd. Yet, not all the world should be as you expect, lest you grow bored."

"Indeed... so you are not the Elder you claim to be, then. I suppose you plan to kill me now."

Herne chuckled. "I am no fraud, Wendell. I am the Methuselah known as 'the Stag' of the Old Clan Tzimisce. My story is simply more... complicated than you might expect. When I was but a childe of 60 or so, my sire shifted my education to the study accursed blight upon my clan. Of course, at the time, no one understood the threat Vicissitude posed... nor did we even suspect the existence of the soul-eaters. What fools we were; I mastered Vicissitude at nearly the cost of my own soul, shriveled black thing that it was. If not for the love of a wise and gentle faery, I would not even... ah... but I can see you do not believe in faeries."

"I am sorry, Lord Stag, but no. I wish it were so, it would be nice to believe that the darkness we bring to the world was balanced out somehow."

"Indeed, that is perhaps the wisest thing I've heard you say all night, except for admitting fear that I might deliver you to your final death."

"Then...?"

Herne laughed and then I heard a strangled cry and then the rapid drum roll of feet. I heard chairs overturn and then silence once more.

"I promised you a small boon, did I not?" This was Herne's voice, but rougher and deeper than it is normally. "I shall let you live for your life means nothing to me, except that I have sworn to never take another's life, be they dead or undead. And unlike any other in my clan, I have a cause for the concern of my soul."

Next to me, the beast silently chuckled as we listened to furniture being set right.

"My Lord Stag... if you do not mind my asking... why do you let the rumors persist? Now that I have seen your zulo form, I can confirm that you are indeed who you say you are... would that be something you wish? Or do you have a reason to let the gossipmongers spread falsehoods?"

"You have not seen my zulo form, Wendell. This is but a -- excuse the wordplay -- mantle of my position within the faerie court."

In the closet, next to me, the brute clicked his tongue ruefully. "That was bad."

"As for the rumours," Herne continued, "I care not what other Kindred do so long as it does not interfere with my business. The fae have no wish to work with others of our kind besides myself and the changing creatures I have gathered to my side have no love for the Lupines who have slaughtered so many of their kind. Since we are mutual enemies with the Garou, they wish you no active harm."

There was silence for several moments then Herne spoke again, thoughtfully. "But it might be best if you were to remind your House that the Old Clan Tzimisce adore nothing more than their privacy... and that it is not only the Malkavians that may go mad."

With those words, I realized with dread that perhaps those words were spoken more directly to me who he could not see than to this Wendell.

"As you will, my Lord Stag."

"No, to finish your reading before we allowed ourselves that little tangent."

"My lord?"

"The Toreador, what of the Toreador? You've already shown you can do more than just describe their last moments of life. I need to know what happened to the Toreador."

"My Lord, there was no Toreador aboard the White Lady. Your architect... he was a Malkavian."

"Impossible."

"My Lord Stag... these skulls knew your architect as many things... an artist, a sodomite, a mad man... he turned these three young warriors into craven pathicusses and syncophantic shades of their formal selves. No, my Lord Stag, unless there is something more powerful and craftier than I, I swear to you that Claude Devereux was many things... but he was not a Toreador." 

More words were spoken, but my ears had begun to ring and the darkness seemed to spin about me. The odor of the man squeezing me suddenly seemed to grow stronger and I was overcome with it.

***

**more in Chapter 8, coming soon...**


	8. Morning in Avalon

I slept in the merciless embrace of demonic nightmares. I was pursued by three animalistic skeletons, knowing it was all but impossible and that I must indeed be dreaming. Yet, I was still as frightened as a jack rabbit. 

At times the nightmares would recede and I would have find myself in an open field, beckoned towards the barn by the full chested Negress. Then my sinfully weak will pulled us down together for a moment of carnal pleasure. 

Yet, such a pleasant distraction could not last; not in the world of nightmare. Under the watchful eye of an emaciated colt, who lost much of his flesh to maggots, a thousand hands pulled me down into the darkness beneath the floorboards. 

Then, once I thought the darkness could drive me mad no further, I was expelled into the light of a dimly lit hall only to come across Satan himself standing before me. 

Satan stood tall and wide, his horns those of an 18-point stag easily and his eyes glowing red. In his grasp, I was shaken like a rag doll until his maw opened to nightmare proportions. 

BAM. BAM. BAM.

I sat bolt upright, with my heart racing furiously in my chest. I did not know where I was, but Satan was gone and I realized it had all been but a terrific dream. With no candles burning and the only light in the room that of the false dawn peeping through the window, the room was familiar; yet, it was not. 

I took in huge gulps of air, as I sorted things out. My mouth tasted foul and coppery, the fading taste of extreme fear I reckoned.

Then the door opened slowly and my less than nimble mind decided that it had been a knocking that had rescued me from my nightmare. With the door ajar, a candle preceded my early morning visitor, who poked his head in apologetically.

"Mr. Herne!" I called out, surprised at the sudden flush of good will and comradeship I felt for my host. I supposed that only natural since he was the one who had rescued me from my nightmare. "Good morning!"

My host smiled wanly and I felt my cheeks flush slightly. I felt a bit guilty perhaps because the man was obviously exhausted, although there at least appeared color in his cheeks. "Penrod," he said by way of greeting, "I am sorry to have awakened you, but Jared and I have just gotten in and I'm afraid we needs must sleep much of the day away, for we are both truly exhausted. I trust you are well rested?"

I nodded, for indeed I felt suddenly energized and my nightmares suddenly seemed to pale at the sight of a friendly face. "You are a gracious host, my lord..."

There was suddenly an awkward moment as if I had more to say, but I could think not of it. If Merlin Herne noticed it, he did not let loose with a hint. Instead, he nodded and smiled again, although it might well have been a little forced. "Thank you, Penrod. I hope you feel the same way after you meet with the man from Lloyd's." He sighed. "I really do hate throwing you to the sharks, but I really must retire. You'll find an envelope with the appropriate papers on my desk in the drawing room, as well as a note granting you power as my representative in this matter. Good day, then, Penrod."

"Good rest to you, Sir," I called out as my host's head withdrew from my room.

Dawn was but moments away, so I saw no point in attempting to slumber again. I threw off the blankets and found myself exposed fully to the air. This surprised me a great deal for not only was it rare for me to go to bed without so much as a night shirt, but I was almost certain that I could recall pulling the white shirt over my head.

***

Breakfast turned out to be several crepes and an assortment of spring berries, which would have been impressive enough, but a small glass of orange nectar. The citrus was tart and sweet all at once and worked as a restorative against a slightly scratchy throat and weak spirits.

I found myself looking for Naomi while I ate. She had helped to serve dinner last night, after all. Wouldn't she also assist in serving breakfast? I hadn't an idea why I was looking for her, but I found her absence echoing in my heart. 

Then I remember the bath from the prior and the sinful interlude between our stations and our sexes. Merely carnal desires that I should have denied at the time, I decided. That's all it was. I owed Jared a debt for interrupting what might have been the gravest mistake of my life, before it might have gone too far. 

My seven sons deserved a father they could look up to as a paragon of virtue. Of course, a man need not be a saint. A healthy man has hearty needs, and I am no exception. I must be discrete in my failings of character, lest my sins become doubly cursed.

If only the birth of the twins hadn't left Pamela so cold.

I forced myself to abandon that particular line of thought as it was neither Christian nor productive.

The same house servant that had announced dinner last, told me that I was wanted in the Grand Hall by one of Mr. Herne's men. The timing was proper as I had just finished my second helping of crepes and berries and I could eat no more.

The Grand Hall matched the entry hall in theme if not exactly. It divided the manse into three sections, a west wing, an east wing and a south wing, which is where the kitchen and dining room had been placed.

The interlaced Celtic circles were inlaid upon the marble floor, just as the entry hall that lies beyond the double set of doors. These doors each had 4 stain glass panes depicting what I later learned to be the legend of Actaeon, a hunter who becomes the creature he has hunted, and is eaten by his own dogs. I would have been staggered, again, by Herne's casual display of wealth, if a large brutish man did not step between myself and the ornate doors.

"Mr. Penrod? Torc Triath, overseer, at your service," He said briskly but clearly. He spoke like a man who expected to be understood and thus be needed to say his words but once. 

Although his hair was not quite as red as the Herne's, he was obviously a Scott. I could tell at once he was a man of great temper, a man who accepted the idea of his "betters" with an uneven pragmatism, as long as there were many more below him to lord over. 

I found him grasping and pumping my hand roughly, although I hadn't offered it. His own hands, each as big as a Virginia smoked ham, were calloused and rough, so I decided not to protest this unwelcomed familiarity. "I was told you wanted a tour of the freehold."

I had already seen the port and town by moonlight and I had a great deal of doubt that sunlight would improve the appearance of either. I agreed, however, on the assumption that my host had arranged for me to be entertained while he was recovered from such an extended period of work.

Also, Mr. Triath did not seem to be the type of man I would want to anger or deny. His smile was forced, the expression in his eyes said he felt put upon. The fact that his dark beady eyes glared out from under a thick brow that was skirted with a single hairy eye brow that ran uninterrupted across his face did nothing to mitigate this cruel impression. 

Of course, no doubt, this made him an effective overseer.

***

The freehold, it turned out, was not the collection of harborside hovels, but the plantation itself. It did not take long to discover that Mr. Triath used many odd words. I decided early in the course of the man's monologue that these must be very common words in Scotland; a country I had not yet had and I will not ever have the pleasure of visiting.

As we made a circuit around the environs, the overseer softened. His voice became warmer and a soft brogue began to slip out. One could see the man loved Avalon as if the land was his own. When he spoke of Merlin Herne it was with a warmth one hardly hears unless someone is speaking of a dearly departed. 

I felt a flush of appreciation, a reflection of the warmth that had seemed so odd this morning. I was indeed lucky to have made the acquaintance of Lord Herne, for the man was obviously a visionary and most generous soul.

Avalon was much like a small village in its own right, a "mew," the overseer called it. The barn and the stables were separate builders, as was the carriage house were my man stayed. Near the stables, there was a small smithy attached to a squat brick building with a kiln that shared its heat with the smithy's forge. A glazier was at work, pulling a glowing glob of molten glass from what Mr. Triath called a "balefire."

When asked if Mr. Herne employed a glazier full time, the overseer responded that Merlin Herne was the man's patron and that the man, I believe his name was Knocker, was considered to be something of an artist.

I stood for a moment watching this artist at work, pulling and beating at the pliable mass. I was fascinated to watch the transformation from ugly shapelessness to a detailed image of a woman with the wings of a butterfly. The man was an artist, indeed, for I'd never seen an article of glass before that had even suggested such craft was possible. Furthermore, the impurities of the glass lent the wings a reflection not unlike mother-of-pearl.

To think but scant hours ago she was but a pail of sand. 

I moved on reluctantly, wanting to speak with the artist, but the overseer seemed to think that was a bad idea. 

The slave quarters were a row of tiny shacks built one into another, resembling huge chicken coops more than anything else. As with most such housing, it was hidden from casual sight of the house and drive. To Mr. Herne's credit, their quarters were clean and white washed.

Several of the smaller black boys capered in front of the shacks, watched by an elderly slave woman who sat in the shade of the building. I would have thought most of them old enough to be helping out in the field, but Mr. Herne no doubt had an excess of workers at the moment.

Mr. Triath's expression softened a bit as he followed my gaze. "Have children, do you Mr. Penrod?"

"Seven boys," I said proudly. Then I smiled, recalling a friend's oft-repeated joke. I added, a chuckle creeping into my speaking voice, "That I'm aware of."

This was as vulgar humor as I allowed myself as a genteman, but it seemed to kindle some good humour into the overseer's mien. "Come from a big family, do you?"

I nodded. "I've six brothers myself. I'd not intended seven, but the lord had other plans, apparently."

"Apparently," the overseer agreed. A young black buck came running up to Mr. Triath at this point and whispered something in his ear. "If you'll excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Penrod?"

Barely waiting for my agreement, the overseer stalked off with the house servant towards the manse and left me to continue the tour myself. I suppose, I could have followed the man back inside, yet I found myself fascinated by the young slaves. 

One young little buck in particular, actually, who had set himself apart from others. He was wearing ragged pants and a dirty cotton blouse, but of particular interest was the red tint to his short, kinky hair. Occasionally, he would look up at me from the picture he was drawing in the dirt. His green eyes were shy, but intent. His relatively light brown face friendly was friendly and open.

The image of Merlin Herne looking softly upon Naomi as she slowly topped off a glass of water that had hardly seemed empty in the first place.

I do not believe it was jealousy that I felt turning in the back of my head at that moment. Nor do I believe it was envy, yet, I found I could not ignore this little Mulatto. Within moments, I found myself squatting down next to him. "What are you drawing, my young friend?"

A huge grin appeared on his face and his eyes met mine fearlessly. With his head out of the way, I saw a vague human shape drawn into the dirt. I could see horns growing from the man's head and his legs did not belong on a man, but were those of a goat. I might have mistaken it for a demon elsewhere, but here in estate of Avalon, there was no doubt he was drawing a satyr. 

The young artist giggled happily. "I'm drawing you!" 


	9. Afternoon Apointments

In doing some research, I've discovered that while Lloyd's of London was in business at the time this story is set, it was neither an insurance firm nor named Lloyd's. The Twinings Coffee Trading Company imported coffee to England from several locations around the world. Tea was not yet the British mainstay as we think of it today. As tea began to replace coffee, Twinings turned to insuring ships and shipments. With risk reduced to more manageable levels, trade increased... sorry, I'm a Ferrengi at heart; I love this sort of thing. 

For the purposes, I'm continuing the story as intended and by the time its ready for a rewrite, I hope to have a better plan in place. Suggestions from those better historically versed are welcomed at greyflank@comcast.com. In the meantime, consider the story now taking place in the early 1700's.

"Mr. Herne?" The man said as he was shown into the drawing room. "I'm Charles Twinings, Lloyd's of London."

"I'm Mathew Thomas Penrod. I was a partner in the Calders Bay Trading Limited Company. Our senior partner, Mr. Merlin Herne would like to apologize for not being able to see you himself." I said to the agent as I indicated a seat by the large oaken desk. "Mr. Herne, I am sorry to report, is currently indisposed due to health concerns." It was hardly a lie. "I've been asked to stand in his stead and assist you in what ways that I am able."

Twinings waved his hand airily, dismissively. "I am sure you will suffice for this day's business." He sat down gingerly as he held his cocked hat pressed against his chest with his right hand. His hair was brown and pulled back into a ponytail so tight, that it might have easily accounted for the pinched expression on his face. He smirked evilly once his bottom was firmly affixed against the cushion and when he next spoke, his voice was almost a parody of concern. "I trust Mr. Herne has not fallen victim to the malady that beset the White Lady."

My heart skipped a beat at the very thought. The very idea that my host should be so afflicted by madness and disfigurement upset me more than it ought to have. I was able to convince myself easily that I was upset at the notion merely because of the delay such a tragedy would cause in receiving our recompense. "He has not. No."

Twinings looked up, an odd expression in his face. Then he smiled and let a little bit of the East End come through his voice. "There is no need for a Masquerade between the two of us, Mr. Penrod. My superiors have already secured the prerequisite funds through my employers. All that is needed is several signatures."

I forced myself not to react to his odd words. Instead, I walked as casually as I could behind my host's desk. Some contraband was to be expected; indeed it was almost traditional. His choice of the word, "masquerade," and the way of he spoke of his superiors as if they were separate and distinct entities other than his employers suggested a conspiracy of some sort.

I leaned on Herne's oaken throne for support as I felt myself suddenly chill with an icy sweat. A nightmarish image of faces pressed up against a wall in the dark nearly overwhelmed me for a flickering moment. I forced the moment aside and met the man's eyes. "The walls have ears, Twinings," I said softly, deciding to play along as best I am able. If my partners were playing a game of chance with my investment, I deserved to know.

"Indeed," Twinings said dubiously. His beady eyes seemed to study me with a jeweler's appraisal. "Why don't you sit down, then? This may take some time, regretfully."

I looked at the chair. It was a very high back, ornate chair. Like so many things in the manse, it was carved with a number of mythical creatures, most of which were obviously aroused males of one sort or another. A large Elk graced a shield at the apex of the chair back. The chair was padded with a supple tanned leather that offset the dark stain of the piece a bit too sharply. The arm were padded where Herne's elbows might rest with a matching sleeve, but other than a pale hide contrasting with the darken, stained wood, the chair was a work of art that looked amazingly comfortable.

"I think I'd rather stand."

A slow, subtly wicked smile appeared on his face. "Looks like a very comfortable chair."

I didn't like this man's attitude and the direction of the conversation did not sit well with me. "Mr. Twinings, I would not like to keep you here longer than necessary. Perhaps, it would be best if we just got down to business. Now I understand--"

"If you are not going to sit in it," Twinings interrupted casually, "may I?"

A wave of irrational revulsion shook me. The very thought of this arse lowering his hindquarters into Herne's throne was quite nearly sacrilegious. For no reason that I could fully comprehend at the time, I felt my fists clench at my side as my blood began to boil.

Had I my wheelock at that moment, I am quite sure I would have shot Twinings where he sat; right through his tricornered hat. The thought spawned a tingling shadow of a nightmarish image, a triangular head that was all teeth and antlers screaming as the echoing of report died in my ears.

I instantly checked myself. I had not slept well. In fact, I had slept so badly that even the incident with the mulatto obliviously drawing his indecent portrait of a satyr had left me at raw ends. Even with the dreaming world left behind hours ago, nightmarish creatures seemed to threaten me, still, in the daylight hours. 

With that in mind, I had to accept that what Twinings was saying was not irrational, but perhaps just an attempt at whimsical wit that my befuddled mind could not properly dissect. This meeting had been important enough that Merlin Herne had told me to rest specifically so that I would have my wits about me. The thought that I might fail my lord because I was not well rested frightened me.

A calmness settled upon me and I sat in Herne's throne-like chair. "Very well, I shall sit to expedite this meeting, if you are so set upon it." I choose to ignore the sudden tension I had felt but a moment prior and get down to brass tacks. "Have you visited the wreckage of the White Lady yet?"

"Frankly, Mr. Penrod, I simply did not see the need. My superiors have freed up a great deal of resources which far exceed the amount my putative employers had seen fit to guarantee this enterprise. As an additional bonus, Mr. Herne receives his monies with extreme alacrity, along with my apologies and those of my superiors." Then he smiled, placing a sealed envelope before me on the desk. "I believe your master will be quite pleased, all told."

I was so flabbergasted by his manner of boorish and outrageous flippancy, I was unable to momentarily find my voice. "I beg your pardon!?" I growled. "Of whom might you be referring to as my 'master?'"

A smile twisted his face evilly, as if his countenance had not been unpleasant enough a moment before. "My, my, Mister Penrod... you remind me of Jared when he first arrived here. Have patience, in time all will be made clear to you. You would not like the consequence of knowing more than your... Mr. Herne sees fit to share with you." The smile stretched thinner and wider, until I am reminded of the evil sprites I've seen illustrated in some obscure books. "I assure you, you can not appreciate the cost of forbidden knowledge unless he deems you fit to receive it. In fact, should he discover that I have hinted as much of the truth to you as I have dared, you would certainly meet a quick and questionable death... while I might not receive the luxury of a _quick_ death."

"What are you going on about?"

"If you do not trust me, open the envelope and count out the contents, why don't you?"

I took a convenient letter opener from my host's desk and broke the red wax seal. In addition to a bank draft drawn on the account of Lloyd's of London, a sheaf of large denomination pound notes, crisp and bundled as if fresh from the Bank of England itself, had been jammed quite snugly into the sleeve. The bank notes were equal to the cheque, and then some. I looked up confused but Twinings was no longer sitting in front of me.

He hadn't vanished; he had merely gotten up silently while I was distracted by the money. He'd gone to the piece Merlin Herne had been quite proud. I flinched inwardly as I watched him examining the golden satyr, using the statue's engorged member to turn the objet d'art as if it had been meant to use as a handle. "That is a museum piece," I growled, "Be careful with that."

Twinings laughed slightly, letting go of the phallic. "Do not worry about that, these are actually quite common when one knows where to look."

"I seriously doubt that."

Twinings shrugged. "Herne can make another. He always does," he said cryptically, as he eyed me up and down. "In any case, I trust you have no objections to the monetary amount?"

Never had I met a more confusing man than this. "The monetary amount is quite acceptable; it is _you_ that I find concern with."

The man shrugged and placed his hat upon his head, as if making ready to leave. From within his coat, he pulled out a portfolio the size of a small ledger. "Sign the papers and be done with me, then."

Herne had warned me I would need my wits about me in dealing with this man, but surely he could not have expected such an insensible man. Just signing the papers and being done with him was perhaps the first logical idea I had heard this afternoon. Yet, I was no longer in doubt of my own facilities and I had a sense of ill ease about the papers he wished me to sign. I should not buy a pig in a poke, and he was no doubt behaving this way in hopes of getting to do just that.

The portfolio contained articles of incorporation and a number of other forms and contracts. They were, in fact, triplicated duplications of the papers I had signed at the very formation of the Calders Bay Trading Limited Company, down to the very dates. Of perplexing interest was the omission of all references to Merlin Herne, himself. Twining wandered the room, admiring the many art pieces with an amused patience. I knew it was not the artwork that he found amusing, although a common sort such as he might well find such displays of apparent indecency the acme of jest. Twinings found my studying the documents amusing, so I held my tongue as long as I could. When I did finally speak, I was sure I understood the role these papers were to play, but not their purpose.

"You would have me conspire to remove Merlin Herne's name from this enterprise as if he never existed." I managed not to have the least bit of uncertainty in my voice. What I said was patently obvious from what he was asking me to do. "Why?"

Twinings replaced a book he'd taken a fancy to and turned to me with a full, toothy smile. His teeth were not pretty things, but rough ivory spearheads distributed unevenly along his jaw. "It's what Mr. Herne wants."

Suddenly, I realized, that whatever else this Mr. Twinings might say, this was the truth of the matter. I know not what my host had left behind in Europe, but the White Lady had come into conflict with a ship from His Majesty's Navy. I suspected that it would be best for all parties concerned that the name of Merlin Herne not be mentioned in any report that might attract the attentions of any official authority in England.

Before I realized fully what I was doing, I was gently blotting the extra ink from my signature on the bottom of the forgery. I sat stunned as I looked down on my own name, drawn by my own hand and unmistakably in my penmanship. As I sat blinking, startled by my inability to recall setting pen to paper, Twinings helpfully pulled the sheet aside so that I might sign the next copy.

My mind felt as if it were held in suspension. I was certain that I was doing what my gracious host would want me to do. But was it right and in my best interest? I could not decide. I could not think of such a thing, although I have time enough now to dwell. I knew there was more to what I was doing than just "signing papers," yet, even as I questioned myself and my motives, my pen repeated the circuit of inkwell to paper to inkwell to paper several times.

My stomach felt as if I was put out to sea for the first time in years. My hand felt like it belonged to another. My mind was numb and my soul was in conflict. Yet, for all that, I felt no panic nor did I feel a greater concern than a slight ill ease. I was doing with Merlin Herne wanted me to do and that was all that really mattered.

As I blotted yet another signature, Twinings patted my hand fatherly. "You are exactly as Jared was when he first started," he said. "Merlin Herne will be quite proud of you." Despite the falseness of his tone, his words caused my face to flush with pleasure. "Still, there is time to escape your fate, you know." His words became full of honey, sweet and cloying.

I barely paused in applying my signature to yet another paper. "My fate is in hands of the Lord," I said simply and without heat.

Twinings snorted quietly, almost silently. "Your lord is mad."

I put the pen down and met his eyes. "I have signed the papers. I don't think your presence here is further warranted."

Twinings blinked and smiled. "The ink is barely dry, while my throat is quite parched. Don't you think the offer of a drink would be a very Christian thing to do?"

These words caused me to think back to Herne's offhand comment about my sounding like a solicitor. The memory of his benevolent smile was a small comfort and gave me strength enough to match false sincerity with false sincerity. "Alas, dear friend Twinings, the bounty of this estate is not mine to offer."

Twinings sat down again, tapping the papers spread across the massive desk to dry. "These papers say otherwise. This estate... this Albatross..."

"Avalon," I snapped, surprising myself with my sudden anger.

Oddly, Twinings seemed not surprised in the least. He conceded the point with a dismissive hand gesture. He seemed much too comfortable in that chair for my liking.

"Shall I have someone show you out?"

"Actually," he said, crossing his leg casually and removing his hat. "That is exactly the offer I have for you. They say that once one has eaten faerie food, one can never truly leave. And that is true enough, I suppose. But for those who have the strength of character necessary, there are many ways such a trapped man may make the best of his situation."

The man was absolutely infuriating! Yet, the business man part of me held my tongue for a moment. Beneath the daft exterior, Twinings seemed to believe that I knew what he was referring to ever so coyly. My immediate dislike of the man from Lloyds' and my unexpectedly strong loyalty to Merlin Herne seemed to have conspired to blind me to another situation. I was not sure what I was involved in or what games Herne might be playing with the clerks, but it had to be steep and questionable enough to be worth the deed to Avalon.

Then suddenly, my head is reeling. Avalon! I gripped the edge of the desk as the knowledge seeped into my head. I can't be the owner of Avalon, I told myself. The thought of Avalon without Merlin Herne was akin to sacrilege! No, Mr. Herne would have had to sign other papers, hadn't he?

Before I could fully sort out my thoughts, Naomi entered the room with a silver tea set. She paused just inside of the door and asked if we would care for tea.

From where I sat, the gold phallus of the satyr statuette came to rest across her ample bosom. My own sinful loins stirred excited at the outlandish image before my eyes. I nodded gratefully; tea would help me think more clearly. Naomi was as close to a Grecian goddess as a Negress could come; certainly her mere presence would improve the taste of this meeting.

Twinings, on the other hand, seemed to suffer apoplexy the very second the dear girl made herself known. His face drained of all blood until he was paler than Merlin Herne, himself. He stood up, as if to bolt, but froze when confronted with her unmoving form between him and the room's lone egress. She stared at him brazenly. Had she been my slave, I would have corrected her, but she was not. Instead, all I could do was enjoy Twinings' sudden ill ease.

"Oh, please, Mr. Twinings," I said with a voice full of honey, "Stay for a cup of tea and some scones."

Twinings shot me a perturbed look and twisted his hat in his hands. "My superiors--" he began in a voice somewhere between a warning and a plea, but checked himself as if suddenly realizing that there was a reliable witness to his glib posturing that the Master of the house might believe.

"Your superiors," Naomi purred, placing the tea tray directly upon the drying pages with a studied nonchalance, "must be terribly upset with the wreck of the Diomead."

The man's eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. With an effort, he closed his mouth and swallowed. I felt smugly vindicated and pleased with this new direction of conversation. "The Diomead..." I said thoughtfully, "Why... isn't that the ship that was docked near the White Lady when she sank?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Penrod, I do believe you are correct. Not that anyone would be so crass as to blame Captain Darcy for so strange a set of circumstances; especially not Master Herne."

"Especially not him, no." Twinings said hollowly and returned to his seat, visibly shaken. I felt a passing twinge of guilt as I wondered if perhaps Twinings knew someone aboard the H.M.S. Diomead.

"Not that I am one to spread idle talk, but the rumors of its destruction also falls under the pall of a stranger set of circumstance still." The dark woman poured two cups of tea into porcelain cups, leaning forward just enough to call my eye to her even darker cleavage and its inviting depths. For a moment I was lost between her ample mounds of flesh that were at once exotic and, yet, somehow, familiar. For a moment there was no sound in the room but the pouring of the tea and my sudden into of air.

I hadn't realized I had begun to hold my breath until she straightened up. No liquid had yet crossed my lips but I felt ever so slightly intoxicated all the same. I turned my gentle gasp into a display of curiosity and mild encouragement. "Do tell, Naomi. I find it hard to fathom a stranger set of circumstance than a ship crossing the sea only to sink in its home berth."

"I'm sure it's just sailor talk, Mr. Penrod, but they say the HMS Diomead was attacked by a sea monster." She smiled, almost in apology, turning three quarters of her back to Twinings. "The stories are all different, of course. Some say it was a giant whale. Others say it was a kraken or squid. None--"

"A giant shark, perhaps?" Twinings spat. He looked lost in that chair suddenly, as if he'd gotten smaller just sitting there.

As Naomi turned to offer Twinings a steaming tea cup and saucer, I caught the glimpse of a wide smile on her face. "Why, Mr. Twinings, you of all people should know, sharks on this side of the Atlantic are carrion eaters." Twinings flinched as if slapped and then looked away, ignoring the cup of tea held out to him. I rather doubt that he was aware of its existence at all.

After a few moments, Naomi simply shrugged and placed the tea cup back on the silver tray. "Perhaps a scone then, Mr. Twinings?"

His body rigid, only his eyes moved slowly towards Naomi. Silent and motionless, Twinings was eerily disturbing. If looks could kill, sweet Naomi would have burned on the spot.

All this merely underscored my ignorance of what was truly going on in this room. Strike that. I was ignorant of the dramas playing out within the halls of Avalon and I was equally unawares of events and agendas of those Merlin Herne trucked with.

Perhaps, I thought desperately, Merlin Herne was unaware of all that transpired here. Perhaps, I should step back and see how this all plays out. Perhaps, Naomi should not be trusted...

Suddenly, an image passed across my eyes, of a palsied colt staring up at me in a darkened stall. The taste of fish tingled on my tongue as phantom fingers squeezed my upper arms. The air drew thickly about me with the comforting aroma of a well kept stable. And there was a sense of a great and wanton hunger that can never be satisfied.

My own gasp for air startled me out of the fugue I had fallen into. My manhood was distressed and put upon so sorely that had I not been already seated, I would have thrown myself behind the huge desk.

Somehow, I had missed the final exchange between Naomi and Twinings for the man stood in the doorway as he did his best to restore the now crumpled tri-corner hat to the state its manufacturer had intended. "This is a madhouse," he spat. "You are all mad to stay within these walls." With those words ringing in my ears, Twinings turned and stomped away towards the Great Hall, where one of the darkies would show him out, should he think to stray or tarry.

"That went rather well," Naomi said, her casual tone nearly covering a wickedly malicious purr of delight.

"I would rather know what just the hell happened here," It was not a question, so much as an order.

Naomi turned back to me, her face softening but the smile did not vanish. Obviously, my order... my confusion seemed to amuse her on some level. "Perhaps Adam would not know a serpent in Eden for what it was, for all that he named it himself. You might consider that a trial by fire, if you like." With that she spooned a bit of sugar into the cup that Twinings had spurned, and she sat in the chair vacated by the disconcerting man. She tittered pleasantly at my apparent astonishment. "As I told you last night, Mr. Penrod. My nights are not my own, but my days... by day I am no man's slave, despite the role I willingly play."

My hands began to shake ever so slightly, but I spilled a bit of tea on myself. I was very much aware of the heat seeping into my crotch, as I tried to casually put the cup down upon its silver tray. My constrained organ roused itself further into frustrated potential as I leaned forward.

"Is this, then, another test? Another trial by fire?" I tried to answer bravely, and with no little contempt, but my voice trembled so that I must sound terribly, terribly frightened. I might have called it unmanly, if my own manhood were not becoming an ever-growing spire of stone just beneath Herne's massive desk. I watched her nearly as expansive bosom rock with gentle sigh, my eyes unable to keep themselves from rolling downhill into the beckoning darkness betwixt those ample mounds of supple mahogany flesh.

A delicate hand of ebony placed itself coyly just below her exposed cleavage. "If it were, Mr. Penrod, you'd fail horribly, I'm afraid." With artfully measured movements, she sipped at her tea. She too spilled a small drop of tea upon herself. I watched enviously as the bead slid down into the dark abyss. It rolled casually at first, but then suddenly, it pitched itself forward like a fox into underbrush. I once had my fortune read from my tea leaves. I found myself hoping that liquid tea could hold some portent as well. "Luckily for you," Naomi said, "I took your measure against a whole different standard last night."

It was with some effort that I found her face again. My thoughts were fleeing, scattered into a hundred different directions, to be replaced with a cascade of images that, only now, forced to stand here night after night alone and mute with naught to do but dwell on the last moments of my life that I might have made good my escape... only now can I explain what I saw. The colt. The smells. The tastes. Rutting like animals in the dark with a woman so dark I could see naught but her eyes.

It was staggeringly impossible, but suddenly, I could feel the healing scars of a raking ecstasy. "I had a dream last night," I stammered, believing and not believing the words that came reluctantly from my mouth. "I dreamed of a dark temptress... a siren... whose song pulled land and sea together... I must... I must be a fool."

Then her ebony hands were pulling at the bow of her blouse. "Yes," she said, with a purr in her voice that sounded of waves crashing in the distance, "You must be a fool." With a pinch and a tug, the bow came apart and so did her dress so casually it's a wonder she'd been able to keep it on in the first place.

My jaw raced her garment to the floor as she rose up, a dryad carved of the darkest ebony wood. "And so I must be a fool, also, Mr. Penrod." And with those words, she came around the desk and consumed me without mercy or hesitation. 

***

Does the shipwreck sailor, awakening on the debris strewn shoreline of some deserted isle, bless or curse the sea? I awoke from the slumber of one fully and absolutely spent, feeling much like that proverbial sailor must. Disoriented, weak in the knees, aware of an incalculable loss, and, above all else, happy to be alive; this is what it felt like after spending but an hour in Naomi's embrace.

I had quite nearly drowned in her. Were I such a sailor, storm-tossed and shipwrecked, I doubt I could say if I loved or hated the sea. I only understood that I had to get back to her. So it would be with any sailor, I would think. So it must be with me.

The door to the drawing room was closed, which left me free to gather my clothes with something of my dignity intact. I was alone. In my younger and wilder days in London, I was the one always eager to avoid any messy post-coital regrets. With the tables turned, I was surprised to discover my only regret was that she was not there.

My jacket waited patiently for me on the end of the golden phallus of the ancient statuette that greeted anyone who entered the room a foot past the doorway. I wondered, as I adjusted my stockings and shoes, if it landed there by design or accident. I would have to ask Naomi, the next time I saw her alone, I promised myself.

So huge is the phallus, with my jacket resting upon it, that I could not see the golden fawn's face until I went to doff the jacket. Its face, oddly, looked familiar all of a sudden. It not as if I had really noticed its face before, having been distracted by its other rather notable elements, but I would have sworn the face was different.

The half sized satyr had a short, unremarkable nose rather than an axe-like Greek proboscis, that struck me as odd right off. The chin was too weak. The face was too tame, over all, although the lusting sneer was dead-on.

It was at that moment that Jared entered the drawing room. "Ah, Mr. Penrod! Just the man my uncle was looking for. We thought you might like to get in a little hunting before the sun sets. Rabbits are getting to be a nuisance, I should say."

It did not, for some reason, strike me as odd at the time that Jared did not wish to discuss business. I must admit that my time with Naomi had seriously disrupted my priorities. It had been quite a day for befuddlement, from Merlin Herne greeting me just before dawn, to the slave boy who obviously had as much Herne blood as slave, and to Naomi rescuing me from Twinings. My priorities had become suddenly very fluid since entering Avalon.

It was way too late to escape at that point, in any case.

"Yes, that would suit me nicely as well," I said. "But your opinion first, does anything strike you as odd about this satyr?"

Jared looked at me slyly and then at the satyr's face. Considering the size of his other assets, I doubted very few had paid this much attention to its face in many, many years. The younger Herne's face lit up brightly, almost too bright to look at. "Why... you are right Mr. Penrod. It DOES look like you!" 


	10. Nightmare

In retrospect, it should have as no surprise that Jared was unable to lead me to his uncle after I retrieved my rifle from my room.  "Must have gone ahead... he's not quite so blind as to accidentally shoot at us, I should think." Jared said glibly.  "Think it worth the risk to try to catch up with the old man?"

Merlin was not were he was supposed to be?  In truth, the news struck me with both cheer and dread. I was certain that Merlin Herne had wanted me to sign those papers, but those papers were also clear forgeries of deeds and contracts that undermined wholly the business dealings of the man.  How could he have meant for me to have Avalon, or the shipping company, for that matter?  Logic says he cannot have, for what would he gain by creating the forgeries?  Why not simply create real documents? 

With so many confused thoughts in my head, I felt it best to follow his lead.  I nodded numbly, and tried to concentrate, instead, on the little sport hunting he had suggested.  

As I walked carefully into the brush, I tried to recall, exactly, what rabbits looked like.  Instead, all I can picture is pumpkin coloured hair atop a cherub of light brown skin, smiling with mischief up at me.  The red-headed mulatto's simple drawing of me became intertwined in my thoughts with the ancient Greek's uncomfortably realistic statue of a gold forest godling.  When I put these thoughts aside, my mind's eyes became lost in the seductive abyss of Naomi's bosom.  If I fought that impure temptation, I began to worry frightfully so about the signed papers Twinings had left behind in his sudden attempt to escape.  

I saw no rabbits, but Jared's chattering might have scared them away.  I was so lost in thought, I fell once, not realizing that the younger Herne was about to turn about.  This level of distraction, I told myself, was not safe for either of us, so I redoubled my efforts to pay attention to my surroundings.  If nothing else, a gentleman should be able to put meat on the table.

Not long afterward I suffered a surprise that sharpened my attention sorely; a monstrous boar crashed through the brush like a bolt of lightening.  Then, before its maddening squeal could stop echoing in my ears, it was gone.  I raised my rifle in pure reflex, and fired with my sights dead on its rump.

Instead of a barking rapport, however, my precious firearm was silent, except for the sound a clasp coming undone.  Betrayed, I could only stare at the rifle in my arm.  Such a failure was as bewildering to me as anything else that had happened since my arrival in Herne's Avalon.  

"You must have broken it when you fell," Jared said helpfully.

I looked carefully now and saw traces of indentations along the barrel of the rifle, almost unnoticeable, in the waning light of day.  

I looked up at Jared and saw that he seemed quite pleased with himself.  He raised an eye brow, inviting me to respond, knowing that my rifle had barely touched the ground during my little spill. 

"I must have," I said carefully.  "It's the only rational explanation."

I looked down at my rifle again and the odd ridges that suddenly had marred my precious wheelock.  If I were mad, I would have said they appeared as if finger marks left on a candle in a very hot kitchen.

I would be mad before long.

***

Circumstance seemed to conspire to keep us from reaching the manse until just past sunset.  Once in the mudroom, Jared handed my rifle to a young houseboy with orders to have Mr. Knocker repair it if he were able.  The boy shot off before I could protest.

We discovered Merlin Herne at the dinner table, a plate of chicken bones and the shell of baked potato before him.  "Ah!  There you are, I was wondering where you had run off to."  My host made some movements with his hand and the waiting maid snatched away the plate, its job done as if she'd existed for just that task.

"We'd hope to catch up with you on the hunt, Uncle,"  Jared said, almost as if chiding him.  To my surprise, I felt annoyed for Merlin Herne. Jared shouldn't speak to him, his elder and superior, like that of course, but the flare of anger and perhaps even jealousy seemed to come from deep within me and had little to do with propriety.  Especially, in light of the fact that Merlin Herne seemed to encourage his nephew to speak in that manner.  "Where on Earth did you wander off to?"  

Herne absorbed the information and seemed to hesitate by only the slightest of moments.  "My apologies to you both.  My little sickly colt needed some very special attention.  Have you seen my colt, Mr. Penrod?"

I nearly fell into my chair.  Images flashed through my mind of sweat and straw, flavored with fish and salt, ebony and ivory skin intertwined in serpentine convulsions while something sad and pitiful watched with uncomprehending eyes.  "I... do not think so," I said.  Had it only been a dream?  If so, than Naomi had shared the same dream.  The sweat on his back irritated the scratches there and the gouges on his backside.  The folly we had shared earlier had been real enough.

But if the dream had been real, what of the nightmare?  Surely that was naught but a manifestation of my guilt.  I could not even fully picture it in my mind.  But for the rack of pronged horns upon its head, the demon had no distinguishing features.

As I gnawed on that knot of logic, I realized that Merlin Herne was looking at me oddly.  "No," I said quickly, as if staying in his good graces was suddenly the most important thing in the world to me.  "I am certain that I have not.  You said it was sickly?"

Herne nodded as food was brought to us.  It was a simple plate of fish and cornbread, but the smell reminded me that I had all but forgotten to eat today.  Yet, for some reason, I had come to associate the taste of fish with the dark vixen.  It felt almost like an accusation, the plate of fish before me and my host, who I had wronged, sat at the same table without food before him.  There was no way that I could steal Naomi away from him; she loved him and burned for him with a desire beyond belief.  

She had called out for Merlin several times, each time with greater ardor until I was spent and could do no more.  I was but a proxy for her lust.  As she had said, Merlin Herne had very cold hands.

Jared began to eat without so much as a pause.  I wanted to say grace.  I needed to send up to a prayer our Lord very badly.  Still, how could I insult my hosts by insisting they say grace with me?  It was certainly not a habit of mine.  Lest my children were at the table with me, I was neither less nor more thankful to the lord for my bounty than any other man who had worked hard for that bounty. 

"It suffers from a rare type of palsy," Merlin said suddenly, cutting through my thoughts.  "My neighbor, Mr. Kenner, would have killed it had I not intervened on its behalf.  You see, I have a rather soft spot in my heart for hopeless causes."

"That is a very Christian outlook, Mr. Herne."  I said without hesitation, although I think the confusion I felt was still apparent in my voice and manner.  "All successful men should follow your example."

"Were all men to follow his example," Jared said around a bit of largely chewed cornbread, "they would find themselves quite successful.  No man is as poor as the man who cannot find generosity in himself."

"I stand corrected," I said, conceding the point to Jared so as to bring the conversation back to his uncle as quickly as possible.  

"All that you see around you, Penrod, is nothing more than a lost cause.  At least to my allies and my enemies, both.  But to me, Avalon is a labor of love."

I flinched and looked away from Merlin Herne, the taste of cod becoming the metallic tang of copper in my mouth.  I forced myself to swallow as I ran my fingers through my hair.  My hosts sat in silence for a moment, staring daggers of accusation at me, I was sure.

Yet, when I looked up at the Irishman, I saw nothing of the sort.  Confidence, pride, and openness, these are the things I saw beneath the bright red mop of air of Herne.  My own father had never looked at me so.  A sudden impulse to throw myself at his feet and beg forgiveness took hold of me and it was only my fear of perturbing my lord's dignity that kept me rooted to me seat.  I was simply, I realized at that moment, not worthy.

"Uncle, I think perhaps it is too early to--"

"Shut up!"  I jumped out of my seat, upturning the chair as I did so.  I was startled by the screeching voice, and even more so by the revelation that the horrible roar had come from my throat.  I pounded the table once, confused by my actions.  "Just stifle yourself and let your uncle speak for once."  

Jared stared at me without rancor and with only a mild surprise.  Ironically, my own my face was locked in an extremely startled expression.  My hands slowly, blindly groped at my face, as if it was a mask I could remove yet I was not sure how to.

"I'm sorry," I whispered and tried to lower myself to my seat.   I was trapped there, however as the chair could not be found.

"Well, now it is my turn to stand corrected," Jared said brightly.  "Well, actually, I sit corrected."  He grunted with amusement.  "Or I will, if I can remember to keep my elbows off the table."

A black girl sprinted forward and righted my seat.  She guided it under my lower end and I gratefully collapsed into its solid support.  I whispered a silent "thank you" and I repeated my apologies in what I hoped was a louder and clearer voice than earlier, although I knew my excuses to be weak and totally without merit.  I was completely staggered by my own offensiveness; how could I allow myself to behave like this?

"I am sorry, Gentlemen. Forgive my outburst," I said, trying to regain my lost dignity.  "I am apparently ill and I should retire to my room."  I pushed myself reluctantly up from the table, and I thought I might have liked my rifle at the moment.  One well place shot would likely render me clear headed enough to leave the house with something of my dignity attached.

Then a cool pale hand, patted my shoulder paternally and I nearly swooned at that very moment.  I must be very fevered indeed, I thought at the time, for his hand did feel as if it were made of ice.  "There's nothing wrong with you, Penrod," my pale host said calmingly.

I met his eyes, and there were not unkindly, but they were deep and burned with something man was not meant to.  He was powerful and strong and I was but a child who nothing of the world.

"I want to go home..." I wailed the words and the tears burst from some place inside of me I had thought dead long ago.  Frigid fingers pulled my pitiful, crying head into his chest and it was like hugging a tree.  Merlin Herne was as strong and as solid as a rock, yet he was still gentle enough to comfort me in my time of irrational need.

He tried to get my attention several times but I knew I was not worthy enough to look him in the eye.  Instead, I cried out apology after apology in an attempt to make him understand that I could not help myself and I didn't know why I was suddenly like this.

Then in the depths of my utter despair, he gripped my hair firmly and yanked my head back until my neck was exposed like a beaten dog.

For a long moment, I held my breath.  Time ground to a halt as my neck was held naked before him and... I did not know what I was waiting for, but I waited, afraid and curious but oddly willing and accepting that it was only right and proper to be manipulated so in the arms of this red haired man.  

"Listen to me," he growled as time ran forward once more.  He relaxed his grip ever so slightly until our eyes met and my throat was naked no more.  Then his voice was kind and generous once more.  "Listen to me... you _are_ home."

***

It is difficult to account for time immediately following that announcement.  I am reluctant to admit that the wave of gratitude that flooded my body and soul was such that it overwhelmed any external stimulation I might have received during this time.  Yet I do not quite believe the shock of such an unexpected and weird emotional reaction reduced me to a nigh vegetative state.

They talked about me as if I wasn't there, I am sure of that much.  Had any of my friends or associates broken down as I had, I am certain I would have done the same.  

I had just decided that I must be drunk and therefore not fully accountable for my shameful actions, when Torc Triath entered the dining room.  The overseer was dressed as befit his station, but there was an evil excitement burning in his pig-like eyes and a number of small leaves and twigs entangled in his wild, red hair.

"I've got Twinings trussed up for you," he announced and suddenly the room vanished.

***

I awoke in my room.  No fire burned in the fireplace and neither sheets nor bed clothes covered my frame.  There was a chillness upon the night that even my nakedness could not account for.  I thought, perhaps, that I had dreamed of screams but there was naught but an eerie silence upon all the manse.

For a long moment, I lay there and stared up at the ceiling.  I could not bring myself to look out the window that overlooked Avalon.  I wondered during this time how hard I would have to pray for this to be my own bedroom, for Pamela to crawl besides me and lend me her warmth.

I wondered which god I would have to pray to.

I heard the footfalls long before they came to my door.  I watched twisting serpentine flashes from beneath my door as a candle was brought to my door..  The devil was coming for me as surely as a hunter returning to check his traps and I was ready to go with him, just as long as everything was over and my torment was at an end.

Then the door opened and, framed by the flickering candlelight, stood my dubious savior.  Would that I could say I hesitated or that I was able to hold onto my unease beyond that moment.  However, that would be a lie.

My heart leapt at the sight of his pale face and I silently thanked god for bringing my salvation to me in the form of this man.  "Master Herne," I cried out as I sat up in bed, my propriety forgotten in the rush of pleasure that I suddenly felt.  Then I realized I was naked and I tried to cover myself but I had neither sheets nor clothes to hide my shame.

Herne only chuckled at this.  "Do not fuss, Penrod.  Are we not men?  What perverse vanity to think the sight of your natural, god-given body might offend me.  You do have a fine body, my boy.  You should be proud of it."

I was suddenly giddy with pride and embarrassment both vying for my senses.  My cheeks flushed and I pulled my hands away from between my legs.  I giggled insanely as the Devil's worm struggled to life and I could not conceal it with my hands any more than if they'd been tied behind my back.  

I did not know what to do about it.

I wished desperately for the Irishman to tell me what to do about it.

***

My sensibilities had suffered greatly doing my short stay at Avalon.  I knew I had waded deeply within madness and, yet, I did not care overly much.  I did not suffer madness so much as I clung to it as a drowning man might latch onto to a drifting log.  For in the very center of this madness was absolute unshakeable conviction that it was all but a dream.

My new reality was that nothing was real.  I knew time passed strangely in dreams, but it did indeed pass.  All things passed, even this.  I merely had to let the dream run its course and it would carry me along softly.  I knew I would drown if I fought the current.

Naked and proud, yet vulnerable and ashamed all at once, I followed my redheaded host down the dim hall to the room where I had first enjoyed Naomi's expert attentions.  My sinful member pulsed expectantly as I found myself hoping that Naomi would be there, to touch and fondle my manhood while my lord and master watched proudly as my god-crafted flesh did the devil's jig with her ebony talons.

Yes, that would make this a most pleasant dream, indeed.  

I did not expect to discover a hanged man dangling from the rafters over the great metal basin I had so enjoyed not too very long ago.  That he was naked and inverted seemed no more shocking at how very worm-belly white his skin seemed.  This man was someone's trophy fish and, because his lips were no longer visible on his face, it took a moment for me to realize that this poor fool was none other than the redoubtable Mr. Twinnings.

Herne seemed pleased to see that he was there, and not at all surprised.  I followed his example and smiled as the awful man's angry eyes found mine.  He tried to speak, but the skin between his cheeks was impossibly flawless.  Without a proper pair of lips, much less a mouth of any kind, Twinnings made only muffled noises of outrage.  He might have been warning or threatening me, or both.  I did not care.  I simply stroked my member to make sure it was still there and smiled witlessly with pleasure and relief.  His eyes and nostrils widened as one and Twinnings became still, watching me test my manhood.

I would like it, I thought, if Twinnings watched Naomi and me, especially if it would be the last thing he would ever see.  I would have liked that very much and I think I may have intended to say as much to my host, but I was suddenly overcome with fear that I might hear my own voice and wake-up from this dream.

Or worse, not wake up at all.  

A small part of me, of course, knew this was no dream at all.  That I only wished it to be such, but my mind was as embarrassingly pliant as any slave hauled from the belly of a slave ship.  No, more so, for no Negro craved his own enslavement for want of base emotions.

I was no more than a stallion led to stud.

Like any stud beast, there were witnesses and helpers at my side, but I was not aware of them.  I could only see Twinnings and the tub, sparkling in the candlelight.

My master began speaking to the hanged solicitor, but his words fell dumbly upon my ears.  I caught only a sense of his words, not the words themselves.  Someone moved boards over the tub and held my master's prisoner so that he must watch me as I pleasured myself.

"You are so very eager, my friend."  My master spoke suddenly from my side.  I was not startled.  It is always thus in dreams, was it not?  "Are you ready to become what you must be?"

I nodded, for I knew I would be damned; that I must be damned already by any measure.  The shame of my actions would be too great if I did not pay the price of damnation, I knew.

Herne touched me on the shoulder and made me his own.


	11. Fallen

Of a sudden, I was spent, the commission of my crime complete.  Without the inhuman passion of my master filling my breast and loins, I crumbled like a discarded rag doll.  My twisted body fell almost bonelessly to the floor, leaving me a tangle of deformed limbs and a monstrously distended phallus no longer quite so engorged nor quite so firm.

I sat stunned, the room spinning.  Curious faces, some of them children, but most of them black, watched with snickering eyes from the edge of the room.  The shadows seemed to hide them too well, perhaps they were not even real.  

In any case, I did not care.  

I was a creature reborn, my body both alien and familiar to me.  I could feel oddly shaped bones beneath my furry legs and the cloven hooves that my master had pulled out from within me.  I did not want to touch the dwindling snake of my flesh, nor the bag of flesh anchored beneath it.  Instead, I felt my ears, distended into a triangle as long and as flat as a leaf on a stalk of corn.  My head was tender to the touch and when my fingers tapped the hollow horns growing from my temples, I felt it all around my crown, echoing on the back of my head.

Goat legs.  Goat ears.  Goat horns. 

The mind could not take it in all at once.

Yet, even as I had fallen from my pedestal atop the tub, my master had not fallen from the pedestal I had placed him on.  I looked up and all thoughts of prayer fled from my head.  I could only behold his magnificence and nothing more could my poor abused mind comprehend.

The thing that had once been Twinings was nothing more than a giant smoked ham hanging from the rafters.  My master began to smooth away anything human from that pathetic mass.  If only it did not twitch and moan in its tethers could I accept that it was dead and its suffering at an end.

Of course, at the time, I did not care about its suffering one whit.  I cared only I was so close to a God made flesh, a God by the name of Hearne.  "We shall know if their union proved fruitful in a few weeks time," my master, my savior said to the shadows who may or may not have been there.  "I am certain this will prove my conjectures true."

Then he was by my side and offering a hand to help me to my feet, or cloven hooves as they were non-undeniably so.  "Arise my lustful Lazarus, and let us welcome you to your new life in the Freehold of Avalon!"


End file.
